Interpreters  and 
Interpretations 


By  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

MUSIC  AND  BAD  MANNERS 
MUSIC  AFTER  THE  GREAT  WAR 


Interpreters  and 
Interpretations 

Carl    Van    Vechten 


New  York  Alfred  A.  Knopf 

MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

PukluhtJ   Oittttr,   1911 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


To 

the  uitfbrgetable  interpreter  qf 
Ariel  .  .  Zelima  .  .  .  Louka  ....   Wendla 
My  Wif, 


2108801 


CONTENTS 

Interpreters 

Olive  Fremstad  11 
Geraldine  Farrar  39 
Mary  Garden  59 
Feodor  Chaliapine  97 
Mariette  Mazarin  117 
Yvette  Guilbert  135 
Waslav  Nijinsky  149 

Interpretations 

The  Problem  of  Style   in  the  Production   of 

Opera  177 

Notes  on  the  Armide  of  Gluck  223 
Erik  Satie  243 

The  Great  American  Composer  269 
The  Importance  of  Electrical  Picture  Concerts 

287 

Modern  Musical  Fiction  299 
Why  Music  Is  Unpopular  357 


Several  of  these  essays  have  appeared  in  cur- 
rent periodicals  and  thanks  are  due  to  the  editors 
of  "The  Bellman,"  "The  Musical  Quarterly," 
"  The  Seven  Arts,"  and  "  Vanity  Fair  "  for  per- 
mission to  republish  them.  However  all  of  these 
have  been  considerably  altered  and  expanded. 


Olive     Fremstad 

C'est  que  le  Beau  est  la  seule  chose  qui  soit  im- 
mortelle, et  qu'aussi  longtemps  qu'il  reste  un  vestige 
de  fa  manifestation  materielle,  son  immortalite  sub- 
siste.  Le  Beau  est  repandu  partout,  il  s'etend  meme 
jusque  sur  la  mort.  Mais  il  ne  rayonne  nulle  part 
avec  autant  d'intensite  que  dans  I'individualite  hu- 
maine;  c'est  la  qu'il  parle  le  plus  a  I'intelligence,  et 
c'est  pour  cela  que,  pour  ma  part,  je  prefererai  tou- 
jours  une  grande  puissance  musicale  servie  par  une 
voix  defectueuse,  a  une  voix  belle  et  bete,  une  voix 
dont  la  beaute  n'est  que  materielle." 

Ivan  Turgeniev  to  Mme.  Viardot. 


Olive   Fremstad 


THE  career  of  Olive  Fremstad  has  entailed 
continuous  struggle:  a  struggle  in  the  be- 
ginning with  poverty,  a  struggle  with  a 
refractory  voice,  and  a  struggle  with  her  own 
overpowering  and  dominating  temperament.  Am- 
bition has  steered  her  course.  After  she  had  made 
a  notable  name  for  herself  through  her  inter- 
pretations of  contralto  roles,  she  determined  to 
sing  soprano  parts,  and  did  so,  largely  by  an 
effort  of  will.  She  is  always  dissatisfied  with  her 
characterizations;  she  is  always  studying  ways 
and  means  of  improving  them.  It  is  not  easy  for 
her  to  mould  a  figure ;  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  very 
difficult.  One  would  suppose  that  her  magnetism 
and  force  would  carry  her  through  an  opera  with- 
out any  great  amount  of  preparation.  Such  is 
not  the  case.  There  is  no  other  singer  before  the 
public  so  little  at  her  ease  in  any  impromptu  per- 
formance. Recently,  when  she  returned  to  the 
New  York  stage  with  an  itinerant  opera  company 
to  sing  in  an  ill-rehearsed  performance  of  Tosca, 
she  all  but  lost  her  grip.  She  was  not  herself  and 
she  did  not  convince.  New  costumes,  which  hin- 
dered her  movements,  and  a  Scarpia  with  whom 
she  was  unfamiliar,  were  responsible  in  a  measure 

[11] 


Interpreters 

for  her  failure  to  assume  her  customary  authority. 
If  you  have  seen  and  heard  Olive  Fremstad  in 
the  scene  of  the  spear  in  Gotterdammerung,  you 
will  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  what  I  say  is 
true,  that  work  and  not  plenary  inspiration  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  effect.  To  be  sure,  the  inspira- 
tion has  its  place  in  the  final  result.  Once  she  is 
certain  of  her  ground,  words,  music,  tone-colour, 
gesture,  and  action,  she  inflames  the  whole  mag- 
nificently with  her  magnetism.  This  magnetism  is 
instinctive,  a  part  of  herself ;  the  rest  is  not.  She 
brings  about  the  detail  with  diligent  drudgery, 
and  without  that  her  performances  would  go  for 
nought.  The  singer  pays  for  this  intense  con- 
centration. In  "  Tower  of  Ivory  "  Mrs.  Ather- 
ton  says  that  all  Wagnerian  singers  must  pay 
heavily.  Probably  all  good  ones  must.  Charles 
Henry  Melzer  has  related  somewhere  that  he  first 
saw  Mme.  Fremstad  on  the  stage  at  Covent  Gar- 
den, where  between  her  scenes  in  some  Wagner 
music  drama,  lost  in  her  role,  utterly  oblivious 
of  stage  hands  or  fellow-artists,  she  paced  up  and 
down  in  the  wings.  At  the  moment  he  decided 
that  she  was  a  great  interpretative  artist,  and 
he  had  never  heard  her  sing.  When  she  is  sing- 
ing a  role  she  will  not  allow  herself  to  be  inter- 
rupted; she  holds  no  receptions  between  scenes. 
[12] 


Olive    Fremstad 


"  Come  back  after  the  opera,"  she  says  to  her 
friends,  and  frequently  then  she  is  too  tired  to 
see  any  one.  She  often  drives  home  alone,  a  prey 
to  quivering  nerves  which  keep  her  eyeballs  roll- 
ing in  ceaseless  torture  —  sleepless. 

Nothing  about  the  preparation  of  an  opera  is 
easy  for  Olive  Fremstad;  the  thought,  the  idea, 
does  not  register  immediately  in  her  brain.  But 
once  she  has  achieved  complete  understanding  of 
a  role  and  thoroughly  mastered  its  music,  the 
fire  of  her  personality  enables  her  easily  to  set  a 
standard.  Is  there  another  singer  who  can  stand 
on  the  same  heights  with  Mme.  Fremstad  as  Isolde, 
Venus,  Elsa,  Sieglinde,  Kundry,  Armide,  Briinn- 
hilde  in  Goiter dammerung,  or  Salome?  And  are 
not  these  the  most  difficult  and  trying  roles  in  the 
repertoire  of  the  lyric  stage  to-day? 

In  one  of  her  impatient  moods  —  and  they  oc- 
cur frequently  —  the  singer  once  complained  of 
this  fact.  "  How  easy  it  is,"  she  said,  "  for  those 
who  make  their  successes  as  Marguerite  and  Mimi. 
...  I  should  like  to  sing  those  roles.  .  .  ."  But 
the  remark  was  made  under  a  misconception  of 
her  own  personality.  Mme.  Fremstad  would  find 
Mimi  and  Marguerite  much  more  difficult  to  com- 
pass than  Isolde  and  Kundry.  She  is  by  nature 
Northern  and  heroic,  and  her  physique  is  suited 
[13] 


Interpreters 

to  the  goddesses  and  heroines  of  the  Norse  myths 
(it  is  a  significant  fact  that  she  has  never  at- 
tempted to  sing  Eva  or  Senta).  Occasionally,  as 
in  Salome,  she  has  been  able  to  exploit  success- 
fully another  side  of  her  talent,  but  in  the  render- 
ing of  the  grand,  the  noble,  and  the  heroic,  she 
has  no  equal  on  our  stage.  Yet  her  Tosca  always 
lacked  nobility.  There  was  something  in  the 
music  which  never  brought  the  quality  out. 

In  such  a  part  as  Selika  she  seemed  lost 
(wasted,  too,  it  may  be  added),  although  the  en- 
trance of  the  proud  African  girl  was  made  with 
some  effect,  and  the  death  scene  was  carried 
through  with  beauty  of  purpose.  But  has  any 
one  ever  characterized  Selika?  Her  Santuzza, 
one  of  the  two  roles  which  she  has  sung  in  Paris, 
must  be  considered  a  failure  when  judged  by  the 
side  of  such  a  performance  as  that  given  by  Emma 
Calve  —  and  who  would  judge  Olive  Fremstad 
by  any  but  the  highest  standards?  The  Swedish 
singer's  Santuzza  was  as  elemental,  in  its  way,  as 
that  of  the  Frenchwoman,  but  its  implications 
were  too  tragic,  too  massive  in  their  noble  beauty, 
for  the  correct  interpretation  of  a  sordid  melo- 
drama. It  was  as  though  some  one  had  engaged 
the  Victory  of  Samothrace  to  enact  the  part. 
Munich  adored  the  Fremstad  Carmen  (was  it  not 
[14] 


Olive    Fremstad 


her  characterization  of  the  Bizet  heroine  which 
caused  Heinrich  Conned  to  engage  her  for  Amer- 
ica?) and  Franz  von  Stuck  painted  her  twice  in 
the  role.  Even  in  New  York  she  was  appreciated 
in  the  part.  The  critics  awarded  her  fervent 
adulation,  but  she  never  stirred  the  public  pulse. 
The  principal  fault  of  this  very  Northern  Carmen 
was  her  lack  of  humour,  a  quality  the  singer  her- 
self is  deficient  in.  For  a  season  or  two  in  Amer- 
ica Mme.  Fremstad  appeared  in  the  role,  singing 
it,  indeed,  in  San  Francisco  the  night  of  the  mem- 
orable earthquake,  and  then  it  disappeared  from 
her  repertoire.  Maria  Gay  was  the  next  Metro- 
politan Carmen,  but  it  was  Geraldine  Farrar  who 
made  the  opera  again  as  popular  as  it  had  been 
in  Emma  Calve's  day. 

Mme.  Fremstad  is  one  of  those  rare  singers  on 
the  lyric  stage  who  is  able  to  suggest  the  meaning 
of  the  dramatic  situation  through  the  colour  of 
her  voice.  This  tone-colour  she  achieves  stroke 
by  stroke,  devoting  many  days  to  the  study  of  im- 
portant phrases.  To  go  over  in  detail  the  in- 
stances in  which  she  has  developed  effects  through 
the  use  of  tone-colour  would  make  it  necessary 
to  review,  note  by  note,  the  operas  in  which  she 
has  appeared.  I  have  no  such  intention.  It 
may  be  sufficient  to  recall  to  the  reader  —  who, 
[15] 


Interpreters 

in  remembering,  may  recapture  the  thrill  —  the 
effect  she  produces  with  the  poignant  lines  begin- 
ning Amour,  puissant  amour  at  the  close  of 
the  third  act  of  Armide,  the  dull,  spent  quality  of 
the  voice  emitted  over  the  words  Ich  habe  deinen 
Mund  gekusst  from  the  final  scene  of  Salome, 
and  the  subtle,  dreamy  rapture  of  the  Liebestod 
in  Tristan  und  Isolde.  Has  any  one  else  achieved 
this  effect?  She  once  told  me  that  Titian's  As- 
sumption of  the  Virgin  was  her  inspiration  for 
her  conception  of  this  scene. 

Luscious  in  quality,  Mme.  Fremstad's  voice  is 
not  altogether  a  tractable  organ,  but  she  has 
forced  it  to  do  her  bidding.  A  critic  long  ago 
pointed  out  that  another  singer  would  not  be 
likely  to  emerge  with  credit  through  the  use  of 
Mme.  Fremstad's  vocal  method.  It  is  full  of  ex- 
pediences. Oftener  than  most  singers,  too,  she 
has  been  in  "  bad  voice."  And  her  difficulties 
have  been  increased  by  her  determination  to  be- 
come a  soprano,  difficulties  she  has  surmounted 
brilliantly.  In  other  periods  we  learn  that  sing- 
ers did  not  limit  their  ranges  by  the  quality  of 
their  voices.  In  our  day  singers  have  specialized 
in  high  or  low  roles.  Many  contraltos,  however, 
have  chafed  under  the  restrictions  which  com- 
posers have  compelled  them  to  accept.  Almost 
[16] 


Olive    Fremstad 


all  of  them  have  attempted  now  and  again  to  sing 
soprano  roles.  Only  in  the  case  of  Edyth  Walker, 
however,  do  we  find  an  analogy  to  the  case  of 
Olive  Fremstad.  Both  of  these  singers  have  at- 
tained high  artistic  ideals  in  both  ranges.  Mag- 
nificent as  Brangaene,  Amneris,  and  Ortrud,  the 
Swedish  singer  later  presented  unrivalled  charac- 
terizations of  Isolde,  Armide,  and  Briinnhilde. 

The  high  tessitura  of  the  music  allotted  to  the 
Siegfried  Briinnhilde  is  a  strain  for  most  singers. 
Mme.  Nordica  once  declared  that  this  Briinnhilde 
was  the  most  difficult  of  the  three.  Without  hav- 
ing sung  a  note  in  the  early  evening,  she  must 
awake  in  the  third  act,  about  ten-thirty  or  eleven, 
to  begin  almost  immediately  the  melismatic  duet 
which  concludes  the  music  drama.  Mme.  Frem- 
stad, by  the  use  of  many  expediences,  such  as  pro- 
nouncing Siegfried  as  if  it  were  spelled  Seigfried 
when  the  first  syllable  fell  on  a  high  note,  was 
able  to  get  through  with  this  part  without  pro- 
jecting a  sense  of  effort,  unless  it  was  on  the  high 
C  at  the  conclusion,  a  note  of  which  she  frequently 
allowed  the  tenor  to  remain  in  undisputed  posses- 
sion. But  the  fierce  joy  and  spirited  abandon 
she  put  into  the  acting  of  the  role,  the  passion 
with  which  she  infused  her  singing,  carried  her 
victoriously  past  the  dangerous  places,  often  more 
[17] 


Interpreters 

victoriously  than  some  other  singer,  who  could 
produce  high  notes  more  easily,  but  whose  stage 
resources  were  more  limited. 

I  do  not  think  Mme.  Fremstad  has  trained  her 
voice  to  any  high  degree  of  flexibility.  She  can 
sing  the  drinking  song  from  Lucrezia  Borgia  and 
Delibes's  Les  Ftiles  de  Cadiz  with  irresistible  ef- 
fect, a  good  part  of  which,  however,  is  produced 
by  her  personality  and  manner,  qualities  which 
carry  her  far  on  the  concert  stage,  although  for 
some  esoteric  reason  they  have  never  inveigled  the 
general  public  into  an  enthusiastic  surrender  to 
her  charm.  I  have  often  heard  her  sing  Swedish 
songs  in  her  native  tongue  (sometimes  to  her  own 
accompaniment)  so  enchantingly,  with  such  ap- 
peal in  her  manner,  and  such  velvet  tones  in  her 
voice,  that  those  who  heard  her  with  me  not  only 
burst  into  applause  but  also  into  exclamations  of 
surprise  and  delight.  Nevertheless,  in  her  con- 
certs, or  in  opera,  although  her  admirers  are  per- 
haps stronger  in  their  loyalty  than  those  of  any 
other  singer,  she  has  never  possessed  the  greatest 
drawing  power.  This  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  the 
stage;  it  cannot  be  solved.  It  would  seem  that 
the  art  of  Mme.  Fremstad  was  more  homely,  more 
human  in  song,  grander  and  more  noble  in  opera, 
than  that  of  Mme.  Tetrazzini,  but  the  public  as  a 
[18] 


Olive    Fremstad 


whole  prefers  to  hear  the  latter,  just  as  it  has 
gone  in  larger  numbers  to  see  the  acting  of  Miss 
Garden  or  Mme.  Farrar.  Why  this  is  so  I  can- 
not pretend  to  explain. 

Mme.  Fremstad  has  appeared  in  pretty  nearly 
all  of  the  important,  and  many  of  the  lesser,  Wag- 
ner roles.  She  has  never  sung  Senta,  and  she 
once  told  me  that  she  had  no  desire  to  do  so,  nor 
has  she  been  heard  as  Freia  or  Eva.  But  she  has 
sung  Ortrud  and  Elsa,  Venus  and  Elizabeth, 
Adriano  in  Rienzi,  Kundry,  Isolde  and  Brangaene, 
Fricka,  Erda,  Waltraute,  Sieglinde,  one  of  the 
Rhine  maidens  (perhaps  two),  and  all  three 
Briinnhildes.  In  most  of  these  characterizations 
she  has  succeeded  in  making  a  deep  impression. 
I  have  never  seen  her  Ortrud,  but  I  have  been  in- 
formed that  it  was  a  truly  remarkable  impersona- 
tion. Her  Elsa  was  the  finest  I  have  ever  seen. 
To  Ternina's  poetic  interpretation  she  added  her 
own  greater  grace  and  charm,  and  a  lovelier  qual- 
ity of  voice.  If,  on  occasion,  the  music  of  the 
second  act  proved  too  high  for  her,  who  could 
sing  the  music  of  the  dream  with  such  poetic  ex- 
pression?—  or  the  love  music  in  the  last  act?  — 
as  beautiful  an  impersonation,  and  of  the  same 
kind,  as  Mary  Garden's  Melisande. 

Her  Venus  was  another  story.  She  yearned 
[19] 


Interpreters 

for  years  to  sing  Elizabeth,  and  when  she  had 
satisfied  this  ambition,  she  could  be  persuaded 
only  with  difficulty  to  appear  as  the  goddess.  She 
told  me  once  that  she  would  like  to  sing  both  roles 
in  a  single  evening  —  a  possible  feat,  as  the  two 
characters  never  appear  together;  Rita  Fornia, 
I  believe,  accomplished  the  dual  impersonation  on 
one  occasion  at  the  behest  of  Colonel  Savage. 
She  had  in  mind  a  heroine  with  a  dual  nature,  sa- 
cred and  profane  love  so  to  speak,  and  Tann- 
hauser  at  the  mercy  of  this  gemini-born  wight. 
She  never  was  permitted  to  try  this  experiment 
at  the  Metropolitan,  but  during  her  last  season 
there  she  appeared  as  Elizabeth.  Montreal,  and 
perhaps  Brooklyn,  had  seen  this  impersonation 
before  it  was  vouchsafed  New  York.  Mme.  Frem- 
stad  never  succeeded  in  being  very  convincing  in 
this  role.  I  do  not  exactly  understand  why,  as  its 
possibilities  seem  to  lie  within  her  limitations. 
Nor  did  she  sing  the  music  well.  On  the  other 
hand,  her  abundantly  beautiful  and  voluptuous 
Venus,  a  splendid,  towering,  blonde  figure,  shim- 
mering in  flesh-coloured  garments,  was  one  of  her 
astoundingly  accurate  characterizations.  At  the 
opposite  pole  to  her  Sieglindc  it  was  equally  a 
masterpiece  of  interpretative  art,  like  Duse's  Ca- 
mille  "  positively  enthralling  as  an  exhibition  of 
[20] 


Olive    Fremstad 


the  gymnastics  of  perfect  suppleness  and  grace." 
In  both  these  instances  she  was  inspired  perhaps 
to  realize  something  a  little  more  wonderful  than 
the  composer  himself  had  dreamed  of.  The  depth 
and  subtlety  and  refinement  of  intense  passion 
were  in  this  Venus  —  there  was  no  suggestion  here 
of  what  Sidney  Homer  once  referred  to  as  Mme. 
Homer's  platonic  Venus ! 

Her  Sieglinde  is  firmly  intrenched  in  many  of 
our  memories,  the  best  loved  of  her  Wagnerian 
women  and  enchantresses.  Will  there  rise  an- 
other singing  actress  in  our  generation  to  make 
us  forget  it?  I  do  not  think  so.  Her  melting 
womanliness  in  the  first  act,  ending  with  her  com- 
plete surrender  to  Siegmund,  her  pathetic  fatigue 
in  the  second  act  (do  you  not  still  see  the  har- 
assed, shuddering  figure  stumbling  into  view  and 
falling  voiceless  to  sleep  at  the  knees  of  her 
brother-lover?)  remain  in  the  memory  like  pic- 
tures in  the  great  galleries.  And  how  easily  in 
the  last  act,  in  her  single  phrase,  by  her  passion- 
ate suggestion  of  the  realization  of  motherhood, 
did  she  wrest  the  scene  from  her  fellow-artists,  no 
matter  who  they  might  be,  making  such  an  effect 
before  she  fled  into  the  forest  depths,  that  what 
followed  often  seemed  but  anticlimax. 

Mme.  Fremstad  never  sang  the  three  Briinn- 
[21] 


Interpreters 

hildes  in  sequence  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  (of  late  years  no  soprano  has  done  so), 
but  she  was  called  upon  at  various  times  to  sing 
them  all  separately.  Undoubtedly  it  was  as  the 
Briinnhilde  in  Goiter dammerung  that  she  made 
the  most  lasting  impression.  The  scene  of  the 
oath  on  the  spear  she  carried  into  the  realms 
of  Greek  tragedy.  Did  Rachel  touch  greater 
heights?  Was  the  French  Jewess  more  electric? 
The  whole  performance  displayed  magnificent 
proportions,  attaining  a  superb  stature  in  the 
immolation  scene.  In  scenes  of  this  nature, 
scenes  hovering  between  life  and  death,  the  elo- 
quent grandeur  of  Mme.  Fremstad's  style  might 
be  observed  in  its  complete  flowering.  Isolde 
over  the  body  of  Tristan,  Briinnhilde  over  the 
body  of  Tristan,  exhibited  no  mincing  pathos ;  the 
mood  established  was  one  of  lofty  calm.  Great 
artists  realize  that  this  is  the  true  expression  of 
overwhelming  emotion.  In  this  connection  it 
seems  pertinent  and  interesting  to  recall  a  notable 
passage  in  a  letter  from  Ivan  Turgeniev  to  Pau- 
line Viardot : — 

"  You  speak  to  me  also  about  Romeo,  the  third 

act;  you  have  the  goodness  to  ask  me  for  some 

remarks    on    Romeo.     What    could    I    tell    you 

that  you  have  not  already  known  and  felt  in  ad- 

[22] 


Olive    Fremstad 


vance?  The  more  I  reflect  on  the  scene  of  the 
third  act  the  more  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is 
only  one  manner  of  interpreting  it  —  yours. 
One  can  imagine  nothing  more  horrible  than  find- 
ing oneself  before  the  corpse  of  all  that  one  loves ; 
but  the  despair  that  seizes  you  then  ought  to  be  so 
terrible  that,  if  it  is  not  held  and  frozen  by  the 
resolution  of  suicide,  or  by  another  grand  senti- 
ment, art  can  no  longer  render  it.  Broken  cries, 
sobs,  fainting  fits,  these  are  nature,  but  they  are 
not  art.  The  spectator  himself  will  not  be  moved 
by  that  poignant  and  profound  emotion  which  you 
stir  so  easily.  Whereas  by  the  manner  in  which 
you  wish  to  do  Romeo  (as  I  understand  what  you 
have  written  me)  you  will  produce  on  your 
auditor  an  ineffaceable  effect.  I  remember  the  fine 
and  just  observation  that  you  once  made  on  the 
agitated  and  restrained  little  gestures  that  Rachel 
made,  at  the  same  time  maintaining  an  atti- 
tude of  calm  nobility ;  with  her,  perhaps,  that 
was  only  technique;  but  in  general  it  is  the 
calm  arising  from  a  strong  conviction  or  from 
a  profound  emotion,  that  is  to  say  the  calm 
which  envelopes  the  desperate  transports  of  pas- 
sion from  all  sides,  which  communicates  to  them 
that  purity  of  line,  that  ideal  and  real  beauty,  the 
true,  the  only  beauty  of  art.  And,  what  proves 
[23] 


Interpreters 

the  truth  of  this  remark,  is  that  life  itself  —  on 
rare  occasions,  it  is  true,  at  those  times  when  it 
disengages  itself  from  all  that  is  accidental  or 
commonplace  —  raises  itself  to  the  same  kind  of 
beauty.  The  greatest  griefs,  as  you  have  said 
in  your  letter,  are  the  calmest ;  and,  one  could 
add,  the  calmest  are  the  most  beautiful.  But  it  is 
necessary  to  know  how  to  unite  the  two  extremes, 
unless  one  would  appear  cold.  It  is  easier  not  to 
attain  perfection,  easier  to  rest  in  the  middle  of 
one's  journey,  the  more  so  because  the  greater 
number  of  spectators  demand  nothing  else,  or 
rather  are  not  accustomed  to  anything  else,  but 
you  are  what  you  are  only  because  of  this  noble 
ambition  to  do  your  best.  .  .  ." 

In  the  complex  role  of  Kundry  Mme.  Fremstad 
has  had  no  rival.  The  wild  witch  of  the  first  act, 
the  enchantress  of  the  second,  the  repentant 
Magdalene  of  the  third,  all  were  imaginatively  im- 
personated by  this  wonderful  woman.  Certain 
actors  drop  their  characterizations  as  soon  as  the 
dialogue  passes  on  to  another;  such  as  these  fail 
in  Parsifal,  for  Kundry,  on  the  stage  for  the  en- 
tire third  act,  has  only  one  word  to  sing;  in  the 
first  act  she  has  but  few  more.  Colossally  allur- 
ing in  the  second  act,  in  which  she  symbolized  the 
essence  of  the  "  eternal  feminine,"  Mm*».  Fremstad 
[24] 


Olive    Fremstad 


projected  the  first  and  third  act  Kundry  into  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  her  audience. 

Well-trained  in  Bayreuth  tradition,  this  singer 
was  no  believer  in  it ;  she  saw  no  reason  for  cling- 
ing to  outworn  ideals  simply  because  they  pre- 
vailed at  the  Master's  own  theatre.  However, 
she  did  not  see  how  an  individual  could  break  with 
tradition  in  these  works  without  destroying  their 
effect.  The  break  must  come  from  the  stage 
director. 

"  If  Wagner  were  alive  today,"  she  once  said 
to  me,  "  I  don't  believe  that  he  would  sanction  a 
lot  of  the  silly  '  business  '  that  is  insisted  upon 
everywhere  because  it  is  the  law  at  Bayreuth. 
Wagner  was  constantly  changing  everything. 
When  he  produced  his  music  dramas  they  were  so 
entirely  new  in  conception  and  in  staging  that 
they  demanded  experimentation  in  many  direc- 
tions. Doubtless  certain  traditions  were  founded 
on  the  interpretations  of  certain  singers  —  who 
probably  could  not  have  followed  other  lines  of 
action,  which  Wagner  might  have  preferred,  so 
successfully. 

"  The  two  scenes  which  I  have  particularly  in 

mind  are  those  of  the  first  act  of  Tannhduser  and 

the  second  act  of  Parsifal,     Both  of  these  scenes, 

it  seems  to  me,  should  be  arranged  with  the  most 

[25] 


Interpreters 

undreamed  of  beauty  in  colour  and  effect.  Venus 
should  not  pose  for  a  long  time  in  a  stiff  attitude 
on  an  uncomfortable  couch.  I  don't  object  to 
the  couch,  but  it  should  be  made  more  alluring. 

"  The  same  objection  holds  in  the  second  act  of 
Parstfal,  where  Kundry  is  required  to  fascinate 
Parsifal,  although  she  is  not  given  an  opportunity 
of  moving  from  one  position  for  nearly  twenty 
minutes.  When  Klingsor  calls  Kundry  from  be- 
low in  the  first  scene  of  that  act,  she  comes  against 
her  will,  and  I  think  she  should  arise  gasping  and 
shuddering.  I  try  to  give  that  effect  in  my  voice 
when  I  sing  the  music,  but,  following  Bayreuth,  I 
am  standing,  motionless,  with  a  veil  over  my  head, 
so  that  my  face  cannot  be  seen  for  some  time  be- 
fore I  sing. 

"  One  singer  can  do  nothing  against  the  mass 
of  tradition.  If  I  changed  and  the  others  did 
not,  the  effect  would  be  inartistic.  But  if  some 
stage  manager  would  have  the  daring  to  break 
away,  to  strive  for  something  better  in  these  mat- 
ters, how  I  would  love  to  work  with  that  man !  " 

Departing  from  the  Wagnerian  repertoire, 
Mme.  Fremstad  has  made  notable  successes  in  two 
roles,  Salome  and  Armide.  That  she  should  be 
able  to  do  justice  to  the  latter  is  more  astonish- 
ing than  that  she  should  emerge  triumphant  from 
[26] 


Olive    Fremstad 


the  Wilde-Strauss  collaboration.  Armide,  al- 
most the  oldest  opera  to  hold  the  stage  today,  is 
still  the  French  classic  model,  and  it  demands  in 
performance  adherence  to  the  French  grand  style, 
a  style  implying  devotion  to  the  highest  artistic 
ideals.  Mme.  Fremstad's  artistic  ideals  are  per- 
haps on  a  higher  plane  than  those  of  the  Paris 
Conservatoire  or  the  Comedie  Fran£aise,  but  it 
does  not  follow  that  she  would  succeed  in  moulding 
them  to  fit  a  school  of  opera  with  which,  to  this 
point,  she  had  been  totally  unfamiliar.  So  far  as 
I  know,  the  only  other  opera  Mme.  Fremstad  had 
ever  sung  in  French  is  Carmen,  an  experience 
which  could  not  be  considered  as  the  training  for 
a  suitable  delineation  of  the  heroine  of  Gluck's 
beautiful  lyric  drama.  Still  Mme.  Fremstad 
compassed  the  breach.  How,  I  cannot  pretend  to 
say.  No  less  an  authority  than  Victor  Maurel 
pronounced  it  a  triumph  of  the  French  classic 
style. 

The  moods  of  Quinault's  heroine,  of  course,  suit 
this  singing  actress,  and  she  brought  to  them  all 
her  most  effectual  enchantments,  including  a  series 
of  truly  seducing  costumes.  The  imperious  un- 
rest of  the  first  act,  the  triumph  of  love  over  hate 
in  the  second,  the  invocation  to  La  Haine  in  the 
third,  and  the  final  scene  of  despair  in  the  fifth,  all 
[27] 


Interpreters 

were  depicted  with  poignant  and  moving  power, 
and  always  with  fidelity  to  the  style  of  the  piece, 
She  set  her  own  pace  in  the  finale  of  the  first 
act.  The  wounded  warrior  returns  to  tell  how  a 
single  combatant  has  delivered  all  his  prisoners. 
Armide's  half-spoken  guess,  0  del!  cest  Renaudl 
which  she  would  like  to  have  denied,  was  uttered  in 
a  tone  which  definitely  stimulated  the  spectator 
to  prepare  for  the  conflict  which  followed,  the  con- 
flict in  Armide's  own  breast,  between  her  love  for 
Renaud  as  a  man,  and  her  hatred  of  him  as  an 
enemy.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  anything 
on  the  stage  more  profound  in  its  implied  psy- 
chology than  her  acting  of  the  scene  beginning 
En  fin  il  est  en  ma  puissance,  in  which  she  stays 
her  hand  with  dagger  uplifted  to  kill  the  enemy- 
hero,  and  finally  completely  conquered  by  the 
darts  of  Love,  transports  him  with  her  through 
the  air  to  her  own  fair  gardens. 

The  singer  told  me  that  she  went  to  work  on 
this  opera  with  fear  in  her  heart.  "  I  don't  know 
how  I  dared  do  it.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  had 
the  simplicity  to  believe,  with  the  Germans,  that 
Kundry  is  the  top  of  everything,  and  I  had  sung 
Kundry.  As  a  matter  of  fact  my  leaning  toward 
the  classic  school  dates  very  far  back.  My  father 
was  a  strange  man,  of  evangelical  tendencies.  He 
[28] 


Olive    Fremstad 


wrote  a  hymn-book,  which  is  still  in  use  in  Scan- 
dinavia, and  he  had  a  beautiful  natural  voice. 
People  often  came  for  miles  —  simple  country 
people,  understand  —  to  hear  him  sing.  My 
father  knew  the  classic  composers  and  he  taught 
me  their  songs. 

"  This  training  came  back  to  me  when  I  took  up 
the  study  of  Armide.  It  was  in  May  that  Mr. 
Gatti-Casazza  asked  me  if  I  would  sing  the  work, 
which,  till  then,  I  had  never  heard.  I  took  the 
book  with  me  to  the  mountains  and  studied  —  not 
a  note  of  the  music  at  first,  for  music  is  very  easy 
for  me  anyway ;  I  can  always  learn  that  in  a  short 
time  —  but  the  text.  For  six  weeks  I  read  and 
re-read  the  text,  always  the  difficult  part  for  me 
in  learning  a  new  opera,  without  looking  at  the 
music.  I  found  the  text  of  Armide  particularly 
difficult  because  it  was  in  old  French,  and  because 
it  was  in  verse. 

"  I  worked  over  it  for  six  weeks,  as  I  tell  you, 
until  I  had  mastered  its  beauties  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  then  I  opened  the  music  score.  Here  I  encoun- 
tered a  dreadful  obstacle.  Accustomed  to  Wag- 
ner's harmonies,  I  was  puzzled  by  the  French 
style.  I  did  not  see  how  the  music  could  be  sung 
to  the  text  with  dramatic  effect.  I  attended  sev- 
eral performances  of  the  work  at  the  Paris  Opera, 
[29] 


Interpreters 

but  the  interpretation  there  did  not  assist  me  in 
solving  the  problem.  I  tried  every  phrase  in  fifty 
different  ways  in  an  attempt  to  arrive  at  my  end, 
and  suddenly,  and  unexpectedly,  I  found  myself 
in  complete  understanding;  the  exquisite  refine- 
ment and  nobility  of  the  music,  the  repression,  the 
classic  line,  all  suggested  to  me  the  superb,  eternal 
beauty  of  a  Greek  temple.  Surely  this  is  music 
that  will  outlive  Wagner ! 

"  Once  I  understood,  it  was  easy  to  put  my 
conception  on  the  stage.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  genius  in  singing;  at  least  one  cannot  depend 
on  genius  alone  to  carry  one  through  an  opera. 
I  must  know  exactly  how  I  am  going  to  sing  each 
phrase  before  I  go  upon  the  stage.  Nothing 
must  be  left  to  chance.  In  studying  Armide  I 
had  sketches  sent  to  me  of  every  scene,  and  with 
these  I  worked  until  I  knew  every  movement  I 
should  make,  where  I  should  stand,  and  when  I 
should  walk.  Look  at  my  score  —  at  all  these 
minute  diagrams  and  directions.  .  .  ." 

Armide  was  not  a  popular  success  in  New  York, 
and  after  one  or  two  performances  in  its  second 
season  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  it  was 
withdrawn.  With  the  reasons  for  the  failure  of 
this  opera  to  interest  the  general  public  Mme. 
Fremstad,  it  may  well  be  imagined,  had  nothing  to 
[30] 


Olive    Fremstad 


do.  Her  part  in  it,  on  the  contrary,  contributed 
to  what  success  the  work  had.  New  York  opera- 
goers  have  never  manifested  any  particular  re- 
gard for  classic  opera  in  any  tongue;  Fidelio  or 
Don  Giovanni  have  never  been  popular  here. 
Then,  although  Caruso  sang  the  music  of  Renaud 
with  a  style  and  beauty  of  phrasing  unusual  even 
for  him,  his  appearance  in  the  part  was  unfor- 
tunate. It  was  impossible  to  visualize  the  chev- 
alier of  the  romantic  story.  The  second  tenor 
role,  which  is  very  important,  was  intrusted  to 
an  incompetent  singer,  and  the  charming  role  of 
the  Naiad  was  very  inadequately  rendered;  but 
the  principal  fault  of  the  interpretation  was  due 
to  a  misconception  regarding  the  relative  impor- 
tance of  the  ballet.  There  are  dances  in  every 
act  of  Armide;  there  is  no  lovelier  music  of  its  kind 
extant  than  that  which  Gluck  has  devoted  to  his 
dancers  in  this  opera.  Appreciating  this  fact, 
Mr.  Toscanini  refused  to  part  with  a  note  of  it, 
and  his  delivery  of  the  delightful  tunes  would  have 
made  up  a  pleasant  half-hour  in  a  concert-room. 
Unfortunately  the  management  did  not  supple- 
ment his  efforts  by  providing  a  suitable  group 
of  dancers.  This  failure  was  all  but  incomprehen- 
sible considering  the  fact  that  Anna  Pavlowa  was 
a  member  of  the  Metropolitan  company  that  sea- 
[31] 


Interpreters 

son.  Had  she  appeared  in  Armide,  its  fate  in 
New  York,  where  it  was  performed  for  the  first 
time  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  after  its 
original  production  in  Paris,  might  have  been  far 
different.  It  may  have  been  impossible  for  Mr. 
Gatti-Casazza  to  obtain  the  co-operation  of  the 
dancer.  Times  change.  In  1833  Taglioni,  then 
at  the  height  of  her  powers,  danced  in  London 
the  comparatively  insignificant  parts  of  the  Swiss 
peasant  in  Guillaume  Tell  and  the  ghostly  abbess 
in  Robert  le  Diable.  This  was  the  season  in 
which  she  introduced  La  Sylphide  to  English 
theatre-goers. 

The  history  of  Richard  Strauss's  Salome  in  New 
York  has  been  told  so  often  that  it  seems  quite 
unnecessary  to  repeat  it  here.  There  must  be 
few  indeed  of  those  who  will  read  these  lines  who 
do  not  know  how  the  music  drama  received  only 
one  public  performance  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  before  it  was  withdrawn  at  the 
request  of  certain  directors.  At  that  one  per- 
formance Olive  Fremstad  sang  the  role  of  Salome. 
She  was  also  heard  at  the  private  dress  rehearsal 
—  before  an  auditorium  completely  filled  with  in- 
vited guests  —  and  she  has  sung  the  part  three 
times  in  Paris.  The  singer  threw  herself  into  its 
preparation  with  her  usual  energy,  and  developed 
[32] 


Olive    Fremstad 


an  extraordinary  characterization.  There  was 
but  one  flaw,  the  substitution  of  a  professional 
dancer  for  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils.  At  this 
time  it  had  occurred  to  nobody  that  the  singer 
who  impersonated  Salome  could  dance.  How 
could  any  one  sing  the  music  of  the  tremendous 
finale  after  getting  thoroughly  out  of  breath  in 
the  terpsichorean  exhibition  before  Herod?  The 
expedient  of  a  substitute  was  resorted  to  at  the 
original  performance  in  Dresden,  and  Olive  Frem- 
stad did  not  disturb  this  tradition.  She  allowed 
Bianca  Froehlich  to  take  off  the  seven  veils,  a  feat 
which  was  accomplished  much  more  delicately  at 
the  performance  than  it  had  been  at  the  dress 
rehearsal.  In  Paris  a  farce  resulted  from  the 
custom  when  Mme.  Trouhanova  not  only  insisted 
on  wearing  a  different  costume  from  the  Salome 
whose  image  she  was  supposed  to  be,  but  also  took 
curtain  calls.  I  think  it  was  Gemma  Belincioni, 
the  Italian,  who  first  conceived  the  idea  of  Salome 
dancing  her  own  dance.  She  was  followed  by 
Mary  Garden,  who  discovered  what  every  one 
should  have  noticed  in  the  beginning,  that  the 
composer  has  given  the  singer  a  long  rest  after  the 
pantomimic  episode. 

Aside  from  this  disturbance  to  the  symmetry  of 
the  performance,  Olive  Fremstad  was  magnificent. 
[33] 


Interpreters 

Her  entrance  was  that  of  a  splendid  leopard, 
standing  poised  on  velvet  paws  on  the  terrace,  and 
then  creeping  slowly  down  the  staircase.  Her 
scene  with  Jochanaan  was  in  truth  like  the  storm- 
ing of  a  fortress,  and  the  scene  with  the  Tetrarch 
was  clearly  realized.  But  it  was  in  the  closing 
scene  of  the  drama  that  Mme.  Fremstad,  like  the 
poet  and  the  composer,  achieved  her  most  effective 
results.  I  cannot  yet  recall  her  as  she  crept  from 
side  to  side  of  the  well  in  which  Jochanaan  was 
confined,  waiting  for  the  slave  to  ascend  with  the 
severed  head,  without  that  shudder  of  fascination 
caused  by  the  glimmering  eyes  of  a  monster  ser- 
pent, or  the  sleek  terribleness  of  a  Bengal  tiger. 
And  at  the  end  she  suggested,  as  perhaps  it  has 
never  before  been  suggested  on  the  stage,  the 
dregs  of  love,  the  refuse  of  gorged  passion. 

Singers  who  "  create "  parts  in  great  lyric 
dramas  have  a  great  advantage  over  those  who 
succeed  them.  Mary  Shaw  once  pointed  out  to 
me  the  probability  that  Janet  Achurch  and  Eliza- 
beth Robins  only  won  enthusiastic  commendation 
from  Bernard  Shaw  because  they  were  appearing 
in  the  Ibsen  plays  which  he  was  seeing  for  the 
first  time.  He  attributed  a  good  part  of  his 
pleasure  to  the  interpretations  of  these  ladies. 
However,  he  was  never  satisfied  with  their  per- 
[34] 


Olive    Fremstad 


formances  in  plays  with  which  he  was  more 
familiar  and  he  never  again  found  anyone  entirely 
to  suit  him  in  the  Ibsen  dramas.  Albert  Niemann 
was  one  of  the  first  tenors  to  sing  Wagner  roles 
and  there  are  those  alive  who  will  tell  you  that 
he  was  one  of  the  great  artists,  but  it  is  perhaps 
because  they  heard  him  first  in  lyric  dramas  of 
such  vitality  that  they  confused  singer  and  role. 
Beatty-Kingston,  who  heard  him  in  1866,  said  (in 
"Music  and  Manners")  that  he  had  torn  his 
voice  "  to  tatters  by  persistent  shoutings  at  the 
top  of  its  upper  register,  and  undermined  it  by 
excessive  worship  at  the  shrines  of  Bacchus  and 
the  Paphian  goddess.  .  .  .  His  *  production  '  was 
characterized  by  a  huskiness  and  scratchiness  in- 
finitely distressing  to  listen  to.  .  .  ."  No  allow- 
ances of  this  sort  need  be  made  for  the  deep  im- 
pression made  by  Olive  Fremstad.  At  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  she  followed  a  line  of  well- 
beloved  and  regal  interpreters  of  the  Wagner 
roles.  Both  Lilli  Lehmann  and  Milka  Ternina 
had  honoured  this  stage  and  Lillian  Nordica  pre- 
ceded Mme.  Fremstad  as  Kundry  there.  In  her 
career  at  the  Metropolitan,  indeed,  Mme.  Frem- 
stad sang  only  three  operas  at  their  first  perform- 
ances there,  Salome,  Les  Conies  d'Hoffmann,  and 
Armide.  In  her  other  roles  she  was  forced  to 
[35] 


I nterp  reters 

stand  comparison  with  a  number  of  great  artists. 
That  she  won  admiration  in  them  under  the  cir- 
cumstances is  the  more  fine  an  achievement. 

I  like  to  think,  sometimes,  that  Olive  Fremstad  is 
the  reincarnation  of  Guiditta  Pasta,  that  cele- 
brated Italian  singer  of  the  early  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, who  paced  triumphantly  through  the  humbler 
tragedies  of  Norma  and  Semiramide.  She  too 
worked  hard  to  gain  her  ends,  and  she  gained  them 
for  a  time  magnificently.  Henry  Fothergill  Chor- 
ley  celebrates  her  art  with  an  enthusiasm  that  is 
rare  in  his  pages,  and  I  like  to  think  that  he  would 
write  similar  lines  of  eulogy  about  Olive  Fremstad 
could  he  be  called  from  the  grave  to  do  so.  There 
is  something  of  the  mystic  in  all  great  singers, 
something  incomprehensible,  inexplicable,  but  in 
the  truly  great,  the  Mme.  Pastas  and  the  Mme. 
Fremstads,  this  quality  outstrips  all  others.  It 
is  predominant.  And  just  in  proportion  as  this 
mysticism  triumphs,  so  too  their  art  becomes 
triumphant,  and  flames  on  the  ramparts,  a  living 
witness  before  mankind  to  the  power  of  the  un- 
seen. 

August  17,  1916. 

[36] 


Geraldine     Farrar 


Mme.  Farrar's  insignia 


Geraldine     Farrar 


THE  autobiography  of  Geraldine  Farrar  is  a 
most  disappointing  document;  it  explains 
nothing,  it  offers  the  reader  no  new  insights. 
Given  the  brains  of  the  writer  and  the  inex- 
haustibility of  the  subject,  the  result  is  unac- 
countable. Any  opera-goer  who  has  followed  the 
career  of  this  singer  with  even  indifferent  atten- 
tion will  find  it  difficult  to  discover  any  revelation 
of  personality  or  artistry  in  the  book.  Geraldine 
Farrar  has  always  been  a  self-willed  young  woman 
with  a  plangent  ambition  and  a  belief  in  her  own 
future  which  has  been  proved  justifiable  by  the 
chronological  unfolding  of  her  stage  career. 
These  qualities  are  displayed  over  and  over  again 
in  the  took,  together  with  a  certain  number  of 
facts  about  her  early  life,  teachers,  and  so  on. 
Of  that  part  of  her  personal  experience  which 
would  really  interest  the  public  she  gives  a  singu- 
larly glossed  account.  Very  little  attention  is 
paid  to  composers;  none  at  all  to  operas,  if  one 
may  except  such  meagre  descriptions  as  that  ac- 
corded to  Julien,  "  a  hodge-podge  of  operatic 
efforts  that  brought  little  satisfaction  to  anybody 
concerned  in  it."  There  are  few  illuminating 
anecdotes;  no  space  is  devoted  to  an  account  of 
[39] 


Interpreters 

how  Mme.  Farrar  composes  her  roles.  She  likes 
this  one;  she  is  indifferent  to  that;  she  detests  a 
third;  but  reasons  for  these  prejudices  are  rarely 
given.  There  is  little  manifestation  of  that 
analytic  mind  with  which  Mme.  Farrar  credits 
herself.  There  are  sketchy  references  to  other 
singers,  usually  highly  eulogistic,  but  where  did 
Mme.  Farrar  hear  that  remarkable  performance  of 
Carmen  in  which  both  Saleza  and  Jean  de  Reszke 
appeared?  For  my  part,  the  most  interesting 
lines  in  the  book  are  those  which  close  the  thir- 
teenth chapter :  "  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  much 
in  sympathy  with  the  vague  outlines  of  the  modern 
French  lyric  heroines ;  Melisande  and  Ariane,  I 
think,  can  be  better  intrusted  to  artists  of  a  less 
positive  type." 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  she  has  written  a 
rather  dull  book,  Geraldine  Farrar  is  one  of  the 
few  really  vivid  personalities  of  the  contemporary 
lyric  stage.  To  a  great  slice  of  the  public  she  is 
an  idol  in  the  sense  that  Rachel  and  Jenny  Lind 
were  idols.  She  has  frequently  extracted  warm 
praise  even  from  the  cold-water  taps  of  discrimi- 
nating and  ordinarily  unsympathetic  critics. 
Acting  in  opera  she  considers  of  greater  impor- 
tance than  singing.  She  once  told  me  that  she 
ruthlessly  sacrificed  tone  whenever  it  seemed  to 
[40] 


Geraldine    Far rar 

interfere  with  dramatic  effect.  As  an  actress  she 
has  suffered  from  an  excess  of  zeal,  and  an  im- 
patience of  discipline.  She  composes  her  parts 
with  some  care,  but  frequently  overlays  her  origi- 
nal conception  with  extravagant  detail,  added 
spontaneously  at  a  performance,  if  her  feelings 
so  dictate. 

This  lawlessness  sometimes  leads  her  astray. 
It  is  an  unsafe  method  to  follow.  Actors  who  feel 
the  most  themselves,  unless  the  feeling  is  ex- 
pressed in  support  of  carefully  thought-out 
effects,  often  leave  their  auditors  cold.  It  is  in- 
teresting to  recall  that  Mme.  Malibran,  who  may 
have  excelled  Mme.  Farrar  as  a  singer,  had  a 
similar  passion  for  impromptu  stage  "  business." 
She  refused  to  give  her  fellow-artists  any  idea  of 
how  she  would  carry  a  part  through,  and  as  she 
allowed  her  feelings  full  sway  in  the  matter  mis- 
understandings frequently  arose.  In  acting 
Desdemona  to  the  Otello  of  the  tenor,  Donzelli, 
for  example,  she  would  not  determine  beforehand 
the  exact  point  at  which  he  was  to  seize  her.  Fre- 
quently she  gave  him  a  long  chase  and  on  one  oc- 
casion in  his  pursuit  he  stumbled  and  cut  himself 
on  his  unsheathed  dagger.  Often  it  has  seemed 
that  Mme.  Farrar  deliberately  chose  certain  stage 
"  business  "  with  an  eye  to  astounding,  and  not 
[41] 


Interpreters 

with  any  particular  care  for  the  general  round- 
ness of  her  operatic  performance.  It  must  also 
be  taken  into  consideration  that  no  two  of  Mme. 
Farrar's  impersonations  of  any  one  role  are  ex- 
actly similar,  and  that  he  who  may  have  seen  her 
give  a  magnificent  performance  is  not  too  safe  in 
recommending  his  meticulous  neighbour  to  go  to 
the  next.  Sometimes  she  is  "  modern "  and 
"  American "  in  the  deprecatory  sense  of  these 
words ;  in  some  of  her  parts  she  exudes  no  atmos- 
pheric suggestion.  There  are  no  overtones.  The 
spectator  sees  exactly  what  is  before  his  eyes  on 
these  occasions ;  there  is  no  stimulation  for  the 
imagination  to  proceed  further.  At  other  times, 
as  in  her  characterization  of  the  Goosegirl  in 
Konigskinder,  it  would  seem  that  she  had  ex- 
tracted the  last  poetic  meaning  out  of  the  words 
and  music,  and  had  succeeded  in  making  her  audi- 
ence feel,  not  merely  everything  that  the  composer 
and  librettist  intended,  but  a  great  deal  more. 

At  times  she  is  a  very  good  singer.  Curiously 
enough,  it  is  classic  music  that  she  usually  sings 
best.  I  have  heard  her  sing  Zerlina  in 
Don  Giovanni  in  a  manner  almost  worthy  of  her 
teacher,  Lilli  Lehmann.  There  is  no  mention  of 
this  role  in  her  book;  nor  of  another  in  which 
she  was  equally  successful,  Rosaura  in  Le  Donne 
[42] 


Geraldine    Farrar 

Curiose,  beautifully  sung  from  beginning  to  end. 
Mme.  Farrar  is  musical  (some  singers  are  not; 
Mme.  Nordica  was  not,  for  example),  and  I  have 
witnessed  two  manifestations  of  this  quality.  On 
one  occasion  she  played  for  me  on  the  piano  a 
good  portion  of  the  first  act  of  Ariane  et  Barbe- 
Bleue,  and  played  it  brilliantly,  no  mean  achieve- 
ment. Another  time  I  stood  talking  with  her  and 
her  good  friend,  Josephine  Jacoby,  in  the  wings 
during  the  last  act  of  a  performance  of  Madama 
Butterfly  at  the  Brooklyn  Academy  of  Music. 
There  was  no  air  of  preoccupation  on  her  part,  no 
sense  on  ours  that  she  was  following  the  orchestra. 
I  became  so  interested  in  our  conversation,  for 
Mme.  Farrar  invariably  talks  well,  that  I  did  not 
even  hear  the  orchestra.  But  her  mind  was  quite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  two  things  at  once. 
She  interrupted  a  sentence  to  sing  her  phrase  off 
stage,  and  then  smilingly  continued  the  conver- 
sation. I  shall  never  forget  this  moment.  To 
me  it  signified  in  an  instant  what  Mme.  Farrar  has 
taken  the  pains  to  explain  in  pages  of  her  auto- 
biography and  which  is  all  summed  up  in  her  own 
comment,  written  at  the  time  on  the  programme  of 
the  concert  of  her  Boston  debut,  May  261,  1896: 
"This  is  what  I  made  my  debut  in,  very  calm  and 
sedate,  not  the  least  nervous." 
[43] 


I nterpreters 

But  Mme.  Farrar's  vocal  method  is  not  God- 
given,  although  her  voice  and  her  assurance  may 
be,  and  she  sometimes  has  trouble  in  producing 
her  upper  tones.  Instead  of  opening  like  a  fan, 
her  high  voice  is  frequently  pinched,  and  she  has 
difficulty  in  singing  above  the  staff.  I  have  never 
heard  her  sing  Butterfly's  entrance  with  correct 
intonation,  although  I  have  heard  her  in  the  part 
many  times.  Her  Carmen,  on  the  whole,  is  a 
most  successful  performance  vocally,  and  so  is  (or 
was)  her  Elizabeth,  especially  in  the  second  act. 
The  tessitura  of  Butterfly  is  very  high,  and  the 
role  is  a  strain  for  her.  She  has  frequently  said 
that  she  finds  it  easier  to  sing  any  two  other  roles 
in  her  repertoire,  and  refuses  to  appear  for  two 
days  before  or  after  a  performance  of  this  Puccini 
opera. 

Mme.  Farrar  is  a  fine  linguist.  She  speaks  and 
sings  French  like  a  Frenchwoman  (I  have  expert 
testimony  on  this  point),  German  like  a  German, 
and  Italian  like  an  Italian;  her  enunciation  of 
English  is  also  very  clear  (she  has  never  sung  in 
opera  in  English,  but  has  often  sung  English 
songs  in  concert).  Her  enunciation  of  Maeter- 
linck's text  in  Ariane  et  Barbe-Bleue  was  a  joy, 
about  the  only  one  she  contributed  to  this  per- 
formance. And  in  Konigskinder  and  Le  Donne 
[44] 


Geraldine    Farrar 

Curiose  she  was  equally  distinct.  In  fact  there  is 
never  any  difficulty  about  following  the  text  of 
an  opera  when  Geraldine  Farrar  is  singing. 

The  roles  in  which  Mme.  Farrar  achieves  her 
best  results,  according  to  my  taste,  are  Manon,  the 
Goosegirl,  Margherita  (in  Mefistofele),  Elizabeth, 
Rosaura,  Suzanna,  and  Violetta.  Cio-Cio-San,  of 
course,  is  her  most  popular  creation,  and  it  de- 
serves to  some  extent  the  applause  of  the 
populace,  although  I  do  not  think  it  should  be 
put  in  the  above  list.  It  is  certainly  not  to  be 
considered  on  the  same  plane  vocally.  Other 
roles  in  which  she  is  partially  successful  are 
Juliette  and  Marguerite  (in  Gounod's  Faust).  I 
think  her  Ariane  is  commonly  adjudged  a  failure. 
In  Madame  Sans-Gene  she  is  often  comic,  but  she 
does  not  suggest  a  bourgeoise  Frenchwoman;  in 
the  court  scenes  she  is  more  like  a  graceful  woman 
trying  to  be  awkward  than  an  awkward  woman 
trying  to  be  graceful.  Her  Tosca  is  lacking  in 
dignity ;  it  is  too  petulant  a  performance,  too 
small  in  conception.  In  failing  to  find  adequate 
pleasure  in  her  Carmen  I  am  not  echoing  popular 
opinion. 

I  do  not  think  Mme.  Farrar  has  appeared  in 
La  Traviata  more  than  two  or  three  times  at  the 
Metropolitan    Opera    House,    although    she    has 
[45] 


Interpreters 

probably  sung  Violetta  often  in  Berlin.  On  the 
occasion  of  Mme.  Sembrich's  farewell  to  the 
American  opera  stage  she  appeared  as  Flora 
Bervoise  as  a  compliment  to  the  older  singer.  In 
her  biography  she  says  that  Sarah  Bernhardt 
gave  her  the  inspiration  for  the  composition  of 
the  heroine  of  Verdi's  opera.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  have  more  details  on  this  point ;  they 
are  not  forthcoming.  Of  course  there  have  been 
many  Violettas  who  have  sung  the  music  of  the 
first  act  more  brilliantly  than  Mme.  Farrar;  in 
the  later  acts  she  often  sang  beautifully,  and  her 
acting  was  highly  expressive  and  unconventional. 
She  considered  the  role  from  the  point  of  view 
of  make-up.  Has  any  one  else  done  this?  Vio- 
letta was  a  popular  cocotte;  consequently,  she 
must  have  been  beautiful.  But  she  was  a  con- 
sumptive; consequently,  she  must  have  been  pale. 
In  the  third  act  Mme.  Farrar  achieved  a  very  fine 
dramatic  effect  with  her  costume  and  make-up. 
Her  face  was  painted  a  ghastly  white,  a  fact 
emphasized  by  her  carmined  lips  and  her  black 
hair.  She  wore  pale  yellow  and  carried  an  enor- 
mous black  fan,  behind  which  she  pathetically  hid 
her  face  to  cough.  She  introduced  novelty  into 
the  part  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  opera.  Un- 
like most  Violettas,  she  did  not  make  an  entrance, 
[46] 


Geraldine    Farrar 

but  sat  with  her  back  to  the  audience,  receiving 
her  guests,  when  the  curtain  rose. 

It  has  seemed  strange  to  me  that  the  profes- 
sional reviewers  should  have  attributed  the  added 
notes  of  realism  in  Mme.  Farrar's  second  edition 
of  Carmen  to  her  appearances  in  the  moving- 
picture  drama.  The  tendencies  displayed  in  her 
second  year  in  the  part  were  in  no  wise,  to  my 
mind,  a  result  of  her  cinema  experiences.  In  fact, 
the  New  York  critics  should  have  remembered  that 
when  Mme.  Farrar  made  her  debut  at  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  in  the  role  of  Juliette,  they 
had  rebuked  her  for  these  very  qualities.  She 
had  indulged  in  a  little  extra  realism  in  the  bed- 
room and  balcony  scenes  of  Gounod's  opera,  of 
the  sort  with  which  Miss  Nethersole  created  ten- 
minute  furores  in  her  performances  of  Carmen 
and  Sapho.  Again,  as  Marguerite  in  Faust  (her 
Margherita  in  Mefistofele  was  a  particularly  re- 
pressed and  dreamy  representation  of  the  Ger- 
man maiden,  one  instinct  with  the  highest  dra- 
matic and  vocal  values  in  the  prison  scene) ,  she  de- 
vised "  business  "  calculated  to  startle,  dancing 
the  jewel  song,  and  singing  the  first  stanza  of  the 
Roi  de  Thvle  air  from  the  cottage,  whither  she 
had  repaired  to  fetch  her  spindle  of  flax  —  this 
last  detail  seemed  to  me  a  very  good  one.  In 
[47] 


I nterpreter s 

early  representations  of  Madama  Butterfly  and 
La  Boheme  her  death  scenes  were  fraught  with 
an  intense  realism  which  fitted  ill  with  the  spirit  of 
the  music.  I  remember  one  occasion  in  which  Cio- 
Cio-San  knocked  over  the  rocking-chair  in  her 
death  struggles,  which  often  embraced  the  range 
of  the  Metropolitan  stage. 

These  points  have  all  been  urged  against  her  at 
the  proper  times,,  and  there  seemed  small  occasion 
for  attributing  her  extra  activities  in  the  first  act 
of  Bizet's  opera,  in  which  the  cigarette  girl  en- 
gaged in  a  prolonged  scuffle  with  her  rival  in  the 
factory,  or  her  more  recent  whistling  of  the 
seguidilla,  to  her  moving-picture  experiences. 
No,  Mme.  Farrar  is  overzealous  with  her  public. 
She  once  told  me  that  at  every  performance  she 
cut  herself  open  with  a  knife  and  gave  herself  to 
the  audience.  This  intensity,  taken  together  with 
her  obviously  unusual  talent  and  her  personal  at- 
tractiveness, is  what  has  made  her  a  more  than 
ordinary  success  on  our  stage.  It  is  at  once  her 
greatest  virtue  and  her  greatest  fault,  artistically 
speaking.  Properly  manacled,  this  quality  would 
make  her  one  of  the  finest,  instead  of  merely  one 
of  the  most  popular,  artists  now  before  the  pub- 
lic. But  I  cannot  see  how  the  cinema  can  be 
blamed. 

[48] 


Geraldine    Farrar 

When  I  first  saw  the  Carmen  of  Mme.  Farrar, 
her  second  or  third  appearance  in  the  part,  I  was 
perplexed  to  find  an  excuse  for  its  almost  unani- 
mous acclamation,  and  I  sought  in  my  mind  for 
extraneous  reasons.  There  was,  for  example,  the 
conducting  of  the  score  by  Mr.  Toscanini,  but 
that,  like  Mme.  Farrar's  interpretation  of  the 
Spanish  gypsy,  never  found  exceptional  favour 
in  my  ears.  Mr.  Caruso's  appearance  in  the 
opera  could  not  be  taken  into  consideration,  be- 
cause he  had  frequently  sung  in  it  before  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  without  awakening 
any  great  amount  of  enthusiasm.  In  fact,  ex- 
cept as  Des  Grieux,  this  Italian  tenor  has  never 
been  popularly  accepted  in  French  opera  in  New 
York.  But  Carmen  had  long  been  out  of  the 
repertoire,  and  Carmen  is  an  opera  people  like  to 
hear.  The  magic  of  the  names  of  Caruso,  Farrar, 
and  Toscanini  may  have  lured  auditors  and  critics 
into  imagining  they  had  heard  a  more  effective 
performance  than  was  vouchsafed  them.  Person- 
ally I  could  not  compare  the  revival  favourably 
with  the  wonderful  Manhattan  Opera  House 
Carmen,  which  at  its  best  enlisted  the  services  of 
Mme.  Bressler-Gianoli,  the  best  Carmen  save  one 
that  I  have  ever  heard,  Charles  Dalmores,  Maurice 
Renaud,  Pauline  Donalda,  Charles  Gilibert, 
[49] 


Interpreters 

Emma  Trentini,  and  Daddi ;  Cleof onte  Campanini 
conducting. 

At  first,  to  be  sure,  there  was  no  offensive  over- 
laying of  detail  in  Mme.  Farrar's  interpretation. 
It  was  not  cautiously  traditional,  but  there  was 
no  evidence  that  the  singer  was  striving  to  stray 
from  the  sure  paths.  The  music  lies  well  in  Mme. 
Farrar's  voice,  better  than  that  of  any  other  part 
I  have  heard  her  sing,  unless  it  be  Charlotte  in 
Werther,  and  the  music,  all  of  it,  went  well,  in- 
cluding the  habanera,  the  seguidilla,  the  quintet, 
and  the  marvellous  Oui,  je  t'aime,  EscamUlo  of  the 
last  act.  Her  well-planned,  lively  dance  after  the 
gypsy  song  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  act 
drew  a  burst  of  applause  for  music  usually  per- 
mitted to  go  unrewarded.  Her  exit  in  the  first 
act  was  effective,  and  her  scene  with  Jose  in  the 
second  act  was  excellently  carried  through.  The 
card  scene,  as  she  acted  it,  meant  very  little.  No 
strain  was  put  upon  the  nerves.  There  was  little 
suggestion  here.  The  entrance  of  Escamillo  and 
Carmen  in  an  old  victoria  in  the  last  act  was  a 
stroke  of  genius  on  somebody's  part.  I  wonder 
if  this  was  Mme.  Farrar's  idea. 

But  somehow,  during  this  performance,  one 
didn't  feel  there.  It  was  no  more  the  banks  of 
the  Guadalquiver  than  it  was  the  banks  of  the 
[50] 


Geraldine    Far rar 

Hudson.  Carmen  as  transcribed  by  Bizet  and 
Meilhac  and  Halevy  becomes  indisputably  French 
in  certain  particulars ;  to  say  that  the  heroine 
should  be  Spanish  is  not  to  understand  the  truth ; 
Maria  Gay's  interpretation  has  taught  us  that,  if 
nothing  else  has.  But  atmosphere  is  demanded, 
and  that  Mme.  Farrar  did  not  give  us,  at  least  she 
did  not  give  it  to  me.  In  the  beginning  the  in- 
terpretation made  on  me  the  effect  of  routine, — 
the  sort  of  performance  one  can  see  in  any  first- 
rate  European  opera  house, —  and  later,  when 
the  realistic  bits  were  added,  the  distortion 
offended  me,  for  French  opera  always  demands  a 
certain  elegance  of  its  interpreters ;  a  quality 
which  Mme.  Farrar  has  exposed  to  us  in  two  other 
French  roles. 

Her  Manon  is  really  an  adorable  creature.  I 
have  never  seen  Mary  Garden  in  this  part,  but  I 
have  seen  many  French  singers,  and  to  me  Mme. 
Farrar  transcends  them  all.  A  very  beautiful 
and  moving  performance  she  gives,  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  the  atmosphere  of  the  opera.  Her  adieu 
to  the  little  table  and  her  farewell  to  Des  Grieux 
in  the  desert  always  start  a  lump  in  my  throat. 

Her  Charlotte  (a  role,  I  believe,  cordially  de- 
tested by  Mme.  Farrar,  and  one  which  she  refuses 
to  sing)  is  to  me  an  even  more  moving  conception. 
[51] 


Interpreters 

This  sentimental  opera  of  Massenet's  has  never 
been  appreciated  in  America  at  its  true  value,  al- 
though it  is  one  of  the  most  frequently  repre- 
sented works  at  the  Paris  Opera-Comique.  When 
it  was  first  introduced  here  by  Emma  Eames  and 
Jean  de  Rezske,  it  found  little  favour,  and  later 
Mme.  Farrar  and  Edmond  Clement  were  unable  to 
arouse  interest  in  it  (it  was  in  Werther,  at  the 
New  Theatre,  that  Alma  Gluck  made  her  operatic 
debut,  in  the  role  of  Sophie).  But  Geraldine 
Farrar  as  the  hesitating  heroine  of  the  tragic  and 
sentimental  romance  made  the  part  very  real,  as 
real  in  its  way  as  Henry  James's  "  Portrait  of  a 
Lady,"  and  as  moving.  The  whole  third  act  she 
carried  through  in  an  amazingly  pathetic  key, 
and  she  always  sang  Les  Larmes  as  if  her  heart 
were  really  breaking. 

What  a  charming  figure  she  was  in  Wolf- 
Ferrari's  pretty  operas,  Le  Donne  Curiose  and 
SiLzannen's  Geheimness!  And  she  sang  the  lovely 
measures  with  the  Mozartean  purity  which  at  her 
best  she  had  learned  from  Lilli  Lehmann.  Her 
Zerlina  and  her  Cherubino  were  delightful  imper- 
sonations, invested  with  vast  roguery,  although 
in  both  parts  she  was  a  trifle  self-conscious, 
especially  in  her  assumption  of  awkwardness. 
Her  Elizabeth,  sung  in  New  York  but  seldom, 
[52] 


Geraldine    Far rar 

though  she  has  recently  appeared  in  this  role  with 
the  Chicago  Opera  Company,  was  noble  in  con- 
ception and  execution,  and  her  Goosegirl  one  of 
the  most  fascinating  pictures  in  the  operatic  gal- 
lery of  our  generation.  Her  Mignon  was  success- 
ful in  a  measure,  perhaps  not  an  entirely  credible 
figure.  Her  Nedda  was  very  good. 

Her  Louise  in  Julien  was  so  fine  dramatically, 
especially  in  the  Montmartre  episode,  as  to  make 
one  wish  that  she  could  sing  the  real  Louise  in 
the  opera  of  that  name.  Once,  however,  at  a  per- 
formance of  Charpentier's  earlier  work  at  the 
Manhattan  Opera  House,  she  told  me  that  she 
would  never,  never  do  so.  She  has  been  known 
to  change  her  mind.  Her  Ariane,  I  think,  was 
her  most  complete  failure.  It  is  a  part  which  re- 
quires plasticity  and  nobility  of  gesture  and  in- 
terpretation of  a  kind  with  which  her  style  is 
utterly  at  variance.  And  yet  I  doubt  if  Mme. 
Farrar  had  ever  sung  a  part  to  which  she  had 
given  more  consideration.  It  was  for  this  opera, 
in  fact,  that  she  worked  out  a  special  method  of 
vocal  speech,  half-sung,  half-spoken,  which  en- 
abled her  to  deliver  the  text  more  clearly. 

Whether  Mme.  Farrar  will  undergo  further 
artistic  development  I  very  much  doubt.  She 
tells  us  in  her  autobiography  that  she  can  study 
[53] 


Interpreters 

nothing  in  any  systematic  way,  and  it  is  only 
through  very  sincere  study  and  submission  to 
well-intended  restraint  that  she  might  develop  still 
further  into  the  artist  who  might  conceivably 
leave  a  more  considerable  imprint  on  the  music 
drama  of  her  time.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  Mme. 
Farrar  cares  for  these  supreme  laurels;  her  suc- 
cess with  her  public  —  which  is  pretty  much  all 
the  public  —  is  so  complete  in  its  way  that  she 
may  be  entirely  satisfied  with  that  by  no  means  to 
be  despised  triumph.  Once  (in  1910)  she  gave 
an  indication  to  me  that  this  might  be  so,  in  the 
following  words : 

"  Emma  Calve  was  frequently  harshly  criti- 
cized, but  when  she  sang  the  opera  house  was 
crowded.  It  was  because  she  gave  her  personal- 
ity to  the  public.  Very  frequently  there  are  sing- 
ers who  give  most  excellent  interpretations,  who 
are  highly  praised,  and  whom  nobody  goes  to  see. 
Now  in  the  last  analysis  there  are  two  things  which 
I  do.  I  try  to  be  true  to  myself  and  my  own  con- 
ception of  the  dramatic  fitness  of  things  on  the 
stage,  and  I  try  to  please  my  audiences.  To  do 
that  you  must  mercilessly  reveal  your  personality. 
There  is  no  other  way.  In  my  humble  way  I  am 
an  actress  who  happens  to  be  appearing  in  opera. 
I  sacrifice  tonal  beauty  to  dramatic  fitness  every 
[54] 


Geraldine    Farrar 

time  I  think  it  is  necessary  for  an  effect,  and  I 
shall  continue  to  do  it.  I  leave  mere  singing  to 
the  warblers.  I  am  more  interested  in  acting 
myself." 

There  is  much  that  is  sound  sense  in  these  re- 
marks, but  it  is  a  pity  that  Mme.  Farrar  carries 
her  theories  out  literally.  To  me,  and  to  many 
another,  there  is  something  a  little  sad  in  the  ac- 
ceptance of  easily  won  victory.  If  she  would, 
Mme.  Farrar  might  improve  her  singing  and  act- 
ing in  certain  roles  in  which  she  has  already  ap- 
peared, and  she  might  enlarge  her  repertoire  to 
include  more  of  the  roles  which  have  a  deeper  sig- 
nificance in  operatic  and  musical  history.  At 
present  her  activity  is  too  consistent  to  allow  time 
for  much  reflection.  It  would  afford  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  learn  that  this  singer  had 
decided  to  retire  for  a  few  months  to  devote  her- 
self to  study  and  introspection,  so  that  she  might 
return  to  the  stage  with  a  new  and  brighter  fire 
and  a  more  lasting  message. 

Farrar  fara  —  forse. 

July  14,  1916. 


[55] 


Mary    Garden 


"  Rose  is  a  rose  is  a  rose  is  a  rose." 

Gertrude   Stein. 


Mary    Garden 

THE  influence  of  Ibsen  on  our  stage  has  been 
most  subtle.  The  dramas  of  the  sly  Nor- 
wegian are  infrequently  performed,  but  al- 
most all  the  plays  of  the  epoch  bear  his  mark. 
And  he  has  done  away  with  the  actor,  for  now- 
adays emotions  are  considered  rude  on  the  stage. 
Our  best  playwrights  have  striven  for  an  intellec- 
tual monotone.  So  it  happens  that  for  the  Henry 
Irvings,  the  Sarah  Bernhardts,  and  the  Edwin 
Booths  of  a  younger  generation  we  must  turn  to 
the  operatic  stage,  and  there  we  find  them:  Mau- 
rice Renaud,  Olive  Fremstad  —  and  Mary  Garden. 
There  is  nothing  casual  about  the  art  of  Mary 
Garden.  Her  achievements  on  the  lyric  stage  are 
not  the  result  of  happy  accident.  Each  detail  of 
her  impersonations,  indeed,  is  a  carefully  studied 
and  selected  effect,  chosen  after  a  review  of  pos- 
sible alternatives.  Occasionally,  after  a  trial, 
Miss  Garden  even  rejects  the  instinctive.  This 
does  not  mean  that  there  is  no  feeling  behind  her 
performances.  The  deep  burning  flame  of  poetic 
imagination  illuminates  and  warms  into  life  the 
conception  wrought  in  the  study  chamber.  Noth- 
ing is  left  to  chance,  and  it  is  seldom,  and  always 
for  some  good  reason,  that  this  artist  permits 
[59] 


Interpreters 

herself  to  alter  particulars  of  a  characterization 
during  the  course  of  a  representation. 

I  have  watched  her  many  times  in  the  same  role 
without  detecting  any  great  variance  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  details,  and  almost  as  many  times  I 
have  been  blinded  by  the  force  of  her  magnetic  im- 
aginative power,  without  which  no  interpreter  can 
hope  to  become  an  artist.  This,  it  seems  to  me, 
is  the  highest  form  of  stage  art;  certainly  it  is 
the  form  which  on  the  whole  is  the  most  successful 
in  exposing  the  intention  of  author  and  composer, 
although  occasionally  a  Geraldine  Farrar  or  a 
Salvini  will  make  it  apparent  that  the  inspiration 
of  the  moment  also  has  its  value.  However,  I  can- 
not believe  that  the  true  artist  often  experiments 
in  public.  He  conceives  in  seclusion  and  exposes 
his  conception,  completely  realized,  breathed  into, 
so  to  speak,  on  the  stage.  When  he  first  studies 
a  character  it  is  his  duty  to  feel  the  emotions  of 
that  character,  and  later  he  must  project  these 
across  the  footlights  into  the  hearts  of  his  audi- 
ence ;  but  he  cannot  be  expected  to  feel  these  emo- 
tions every  night.  He  must  remember  how  he  felt 
them  before.  And  sometimes  even  this  ideal  in- 
terpreter makes  mistakes.  Neither  instinct  nor 
intelligence  —  not  even  genius  —  can  compass 
every  range. 

[60] 


Mary    Garden 

Miss  Garden's  career  has  been  closely  identified 
with  the  French  lyric  stage  and,  in  at  least  two 
operas,  she  has  been  the  principal  interpreter  — 
and  a  material  factor  in  their  success  —  of  works 
which  have  left  their  mark  on  the  epoch,  stepping- 
stones  in  the  musical  brook.  The  roles  in  which 
she  has  most  nearly  approached  the  ideal  are  per- 
haps Melisande,  Jean  (Le  Jongleur  de  Notre 
Dame),  Sapho,  Thais,  Louise,  Marguerite  (in 
Gounod's  Faust),  Chrysis  (in  Aphrodite),  and 
Monna  Vanna.  I  cannot  speak  personally  of  her 
Tosca,  her  Orlanda,  her  Manon,  her  Vio- 
letta,  or  her  Cherubin  (in  Massenet's  opera  of  the 
same  name).  I  do  not  care  for  her  Carmen  as  a 
whole,  and  to  my  mind  her  interpretation  of  Sa- 
lome lacks  the  inevitable  quality  which  stamped 
Olive  Fremstad's  performance.  In  certain  re- 
spects she  realizes  the  characters  and  sings  the 
music  of  Juliet  and  Ophelie,  but  this  is  vieux  jeu 
for  her,  and  I  do  not  think  she  has  effaced  the 
memory  of  Emma  Eames  in  the  one  and  Emma 
Calve  in  the  other  of  these  roles.  She  was  some- 
what vague  and  not  altogether  satisfactory  (this 
may  be  ascribed  to  the  paltriness  of  the  parts)  as 
Prince  Charmant  in  Cendrillon,  la  belle  Dulcinee  in 
Don  Quichotte,  and  Griselidis.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  Natoma  —  her  only  appearance  thus  far  in 
[61] 


I nterpreters 

opera  in  English  —  she  made  a  much  more  impor- 
tant contribution  to  the  lyric  stage  than  either 
author  or  composer. 

Mary  Garden  was  born  in  Scotland,  but  her  fam- 
ily came  to  this  country  when  she  was  very  young, 
and  she  grew  up  in  the  vicinity  of  Chicago.  She 
may  therefore  be  adjudged  at  least  as  much  an 
American  singer  as  Olive  Fremstad.  She  studied 
in  France,  however,  and  this  fortuitous  circum- 
stance accounts  for  the  fact  that  all  her  great 
roles  are  French,  and  for  the  most  part  modern 
French.  Her  two  Italian  roles,  Violetta  and 
Tosca,  she  sings  in  French,  although  I  believe  she 
has  made  attempts  to  sing  Puccini's  opera  in  the 
original  tongue.  Her  other  ventures  afield  have 
included  Salome,  sung  in  French,  and  Natoma, 
sung  in  English.  Her  pronunciation  of  French  on 
the  stage  has  always  aroused  comment,  some  of  it 
jocular.  Her  accent  is  strongly  American,  a  mat- 
ter which  her  very  clear  enunciation  does  not  leave 
in  doubt.  However,  it  is  a  question  in  my  mind 
if  Miss  Garden  did  not  weigh  well  the  charm  of 
this  accent  and  its  probable  effect  on  French  audi- 
tors. You  will  remember  that  Helena  Modjeska 
spoke  English  with  a  decided  accent,  as  do  Fritzi 
Scheff,  Alia  Nazimova,  and  Mitzi  Hajos  in  our 
own  day ;  you  may  also  realize  that  to  the  public, 
[62] 


Mary    Garden 

which  includes  yourself,  this  is  no  inconsiderable 
part  of  their  charm.  Parisians  do  not  take  pleas- 
ure in  hearing  their  language  spoken  by  a  Ger- 
man, but  they  have  never  had  any  objection  — 
quite  the  contrary  —  to  an  English  or  American 
accent  on  their  stage,  although  I  do  not  believe  this 
general  preference  has  ever  been  allowed  to  affect 
performances  at  the  Comedie  Fran9aise,  except 
when  I 'Anglais  tel  qu'on  le  parle  is  on  the  affiches. 
At  least  it  is  certain  that  Miss  Garden  speaks 
French  quite  as  easily  as  —  perhaps  more  easily 
than  —  she  does  English,  and  many  of  the  eccen- 
tricities of  her  stage  speech  are  not  noticeable  in 
private  life. 

Many  of  the  great  artists  of  the  theatre  have 
owed  their  first  opportunity  to  an  accident ;  it  was 
so  with  Mary  Garden.  She  once  told  me  the  story 
herself  and  I  may  be  allowed  to  repeat  it  in  her 
own  words,  as  I  put  them  down  shortly  after : 

"  I  became  friends  with  Sybil  Sanderson,  who 
was  singing  in  Paris  then,  and  one  day  when  I  was 
at  her  house  Albert  Carre,  the  director  of  the 
Opera-Comique,  came  to  call.  I  was  sitting  by 
the  window  as  he  entered,  and  he  said  to  Sybil, 
*  That  woman  has  a  profile ;  she  would  make  a 
charming  Louise.'  Charpentier's  opera,  I  should 
explain,  had  not  yet  been  produced.  *  She  has  a 
[63] 


Interpreters 

voice,  too,'  Sybil  added.  Well,  M.  Carre  took  me 
to  the  theatre  and  listened  while  I  sang  airs  from 
Traviata  and  Manon.  Then  he  gave  me  the  par- 
tition of  Louise  and  told  me  to  go  home  and  study 
it.  I  had  the  role  in  my  head  in  fifteen  days. 
This  was  in  March,  and  M.  Carre  engaged  me  to 
sing  at  his  theatre  beginning  in  October.  .  .  .  One 
spring  day,  however,  when  I  was  feeling  particu- 
larly depressed  over  the  death  of  a  dog  that  had 
been  run  over  by  an  omnibus,  M.  Carre  came  to 
me  in  great  excitement;  Mme.  Rioton,  the  singer 
cast  for  the  part,  was  ill,  and  he  asked  me  if  I 
thought  I  could  sing  Louise.  I  said  '  Certainly,' 
in  the  same  tone  with  which  I  would  have  accepted 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  It  was  only  bluff;  I  had 
never  rehearsed  the  part  with  orchestra,  but  it 
was  my  chance,  and  I  was  determined  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it.  Besides,  I  had  studied  the  music 
so  carefully  that  I  could  have  sung  it  note  for  note 
if  the  orchestra  had  played  The  Star-Spangled 
Banner  simultaneously. 

"  Evening  came  and  found  me  in  the  theatre. 
Mme.  Rioton  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  sing ;  she 
appeared  during  the  first  two  acts,  and  then  suc- 
cumbed immediately  before  the  air,  Depuis  le  Jour, 
which  opens  the  third  act.  I  was  in  my  dressing- 
room  when  M.  Carre  sent  for  me.  He  told  me  that 
[64] 


Mary    Garden 

an  announcement  had  been  made  before  the  curtain 
that  I  would  be  substituted  for  Mme.  Rioton.  I 
learned  afterwards  that  Andre  Messager,  who  was 
directing  the  orchestra,  had  strongly  advised 
against  taking  this  step ;  he  thought  the  experiment 
was  too  dangerous,  and  urged  that  the  people  in 
the  house  should  be  given  their  money  back.  The 
audience,  you  may  be  sure,  was  none  too  pleased 
at  the  prospect  of  having  to  listen  to  a  Mile.  Gar- 
den of  whom  they  had  never  heard.  Will  you 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  was  never  less 
nervous?  ...  I  must  have  succeeded,  for  I  sang 
Louise  over  two  hundred  times  at  the  Opera- 
Comique  after  that.  The  year  was  1900,  and  I 
had  made  my  debut  on  Friday,  April  13  !  " 

I  have  no  contemporary  criticisms  of  this  event 
at  hand,  but  one  of  my  most  valued  souvenirs  is  a 
photograph  of  the  charming  interpreter  as  she 
appeared  in  the  role  of  Louise  at  the  beginning  of 
her  career.  However,  in  one  of  Gauthier-Villars's 
compilations  of  his  musical  criticisms,  which  he 
signed  "  L'Ouvreuse "  ("La  Ronde  des 
Blanches  "),  I  discovered  the  following,  dated  Feb- 
ruary 21,  1901,  a  detail  of  a  review  of  Gabriel 
Pierne's  opera,  La  Fille  de  Tdbarin :  "  Mile.  Gar- 
den a  une  aimable  figure,  une  voix  aimable,  et  un 
petit  reste  d'accent  exotique,  aimable  aussi." 
[65] 


Interpreters 

Of  the  composer  of  Louise  Miss  Garden  had 
many  interesting  things  to  say  in  after  years: 
"  The  opera  is  an  expression  of  Charpentier's  own 
life,"  she  told  me  one  day.  "  It  is  the  opera  of 
Montmartre,  and  he  was  the  King  of  Montmartre, 
a  real  bohemian,  to  whom  money  and  fame  meant 
nothing.  He  was  satisfied  if  he  had  enough  to 
pay  consommations  for  himself  and  his  friends  at 
the  Rat  Mort.  He  had  won  the  Prix  de  'Rome 
before  Louise  was  produced,  but  he  remained  poor. 
He  lived  in  a  dirty  little  garret  up  on  the  butte, 
and  while  he  was  writing  this  realistic  picture  of 
his  own  life  he  was  slowly  starving  to  death. 
Andre  Messager  knew  him  and  tried  to  give  him 
money,  but  he  wouldn't  accept  it.  He  was  very 
proud.  Messager  was  obliged  to  carry  up  milk 
in  bottles,  with  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  say  that  he 
wanted  to  lunch  with  him,  in  order  to  get  Char- 
pentier  to  take  nourishment. 

**  Meanwhile,  little  by  little,  Louise  was  being 
slowly  written.  .  .  .  Part  of  it  he  wrote  in  the 
Rat  Mort,  part  in  his  own  little  room,  and  part  of 
it  in  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette,  one  of  the  gayest 
of  the  Montmartre  dance  halls.  High  up  on  the 
butte  the  gaunt  windmill  sign  waves  its  arms; 
from  the  garden  you  can  see  all  Paris.  It  is  the 
view  that  you  get  in  the  third  act  of  Louise.  .  .  . 
[66] 


Mary    Garden 

The  production  of  his  opera  brought  Charpentier 
nearly  half  a  million  francs,  but  he  spent  it  all  on 
the  working-girls  of  Montmartre.  He  even  es- 
tablished a  conservatory,  so  that  those  with  talent 
might  study  without  paying.  And  his  mother, 
whom  he  adored,  had  everything  she  wanted  until 
she  died.  .  .  .  He  always  wore  the  artist  costume, 
corduroy  trousers,  blouse,  and  flowing  tie,  even 
when  he  came  to  the  Opera-Comique  in  the  evening. 
Money  did  not  change  his  habits.  His  kingdom 
extended  over  all  Paris  after  the  production  of 
Louise,  but  he  still  preferred  his  old  friends  in 
Montmartre  to  the  new  ones  his  success  had  made 
for  him,  and  he  dissipated  his  strength  and  talent. 
He  was  an  adorable  man ;  he  would  give  his  last  sou 
to  any  one  who  asked  for  it ! 

"  To  celebrate  the  fiftieth  performance  of  Lou- 
ise, M.  Carre  gave  a  dinner  in  July,  1900.  Most 
appropriately  he  did  not  choose  the  Cafe  Anglais 
or  the  Cafe  de  Paris  for  this  occasion,  but  Char- 
pentier's  own  beloved  Moulin  de  la  Galette.  It  was 
at  this  dinner  that  the  composer  gave  the  first  sign 
of  his  physical  decline.  He  had  scarcely  seated 
himself  at  the  table,  surrounded  by  the  great  men 
and  women  of  Paris,  before  he  fainted.  .  .  ." 

The  subsequent  history  of  this  composer  of  the 
lower  world  we  all  know  too  well ;  how  he  journeyed 
[67] 


I  nter p  reters 

south  and  lived  in  obscurity  for  years,  years  which 
were  embellished  with  sundry  rumours  relating  to 
future  works,  rumours  which  were  finally  crowned 
by  the  production  of  Julien  at  the  Opera-Comique 
—  and  subsequently  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  in  New  York.  The  failure  of  this  opera 
was  abysmal. 

Louise  is  a  role  which  Miss  Garden  has  sung 
very  frequently  in  America,  and,  as  she  may  be 
said  to  have  contributed  to  Charpentier's  fame 
and  popularity  in  Paris,  she  did  as  much  for  him 
here.  This  was  the  second  part  in  which  she  ap- 
peared in  New  York.  The  dynamics  of  the  role 
are  finely  wrought  out,  deeply  felt ;  the  characteri- 
zation is  extraordinarily  keen,  although  after  the 
first  act  it  never  touches  the  heart.  The  singing- 
actress  conceives  the  character  of  the  sewing-girl 
as  hard  and  brittle,  and  she  does  not  play  it  for 
sympathy.  She  acts  the  final  scene  with  the  fa- 
ther with  the  brilliant  polish  of  a  diamond  cut  in 
Amsterdam,  and  with  heartless  brutality.  Stroke 
after  stroke  she  devotes  to  a  ruthless  exposure  of 
what  she  evidently  considers  to  be  the  nature  of 
this  futile  drab.  It  is  the  scene  in  the  play  which 
evidently  interests  her  most,  and  it  is  the  scene  to 
which  she  has  given  her  most  careful  attention. 
In  the  first  act,  to  be  sure,  she  is  gamine  and  ador- 
[68] 


Mary    Garden 

able  in  her  scenes  with  her  father,  and  touchingly 
poignant  in  the  despairing  cry  which  closes  the  act, 
Paris!  In  the  next  two  acts  she  wisely  sub- 
merges herself  in  the  general  effect.  She  allows 
the  sewing-girls  to  make  the  most  of  their  scene, 
and,  after  she  has  sung  Depuis  le  Jour,  she  gives 
the  third  act  wholly  into  the  keeping  of  the  ballet, 
and  the  interpreters  of  Julien  and  the  mother. 

There  are  other  ways  of  singing  and  acting  this 
role.  Others  have  sung  and  acted  it,  others  will 
sing  and  act  it,  effectively.  The  abandoned  (al- 
most aggressive)  perversity  of  Miss  Garden's  per- 
formance has  perhaps  not  been  equalled,  but  this 
role  does  not  belong  to  her  as  completely  as  do 
Thais  and  Melisande;  no  other  interpreters  will 
satisfy  any  one  who  has  seen  her  in  these  two 
parts. 

Miss  Garden  made  her  American  debut  in  Mas- 
senet's opera,  Thais,  written,  by  the  way,  for  Sybil 
Sanderson.  The  date  was  November  25,  1907. 
Previous  to  this  time  Miss  Garden  had  never  sung 
this  opera  in  Paris,  but  she  had  appeared  in  it 
during  a  summer  season  at  one  of  the  French 
watering  places.  Since  that  night,  nearly  ten 
years  ago,  however,  it  has  become  the  most  stable 
feature  of  her  repertoire.  She  has  sung  it  fre- 
quently in  Paris,  and  during  the  long  tours  under- 
[69] 


I nterpreters 

taken  by  the  Chicago  Opera  Company  this  senti- 
mental tale  of  the  Alexandrian  courtesan  and  the 
hermit  of  the  desert  has  startled  the  inhabitants  of 
hamlets  in  Iowa  and  California.  It  is  a  very  bril- 
liant scenic  show,  and  is  utterly  successful  as  a 
vehicle  for  the  exploitation  of  the  charms  of  a 
fragrant  personality.  Miss  Garden  has  found  the 
part  grateful ;  her  very  lovely  figure  is  particularly 
well  suited  to  the  allurements  of  Grecian  drapery, 
and  the  unwinding  of  her  charms  at  the  close  of 
the  first  act  is  an  event  calculated  to  stir  the  slug- 
gish blood  of  a  hardened  theatre-goer,  let  alone 
that  of  a  Nebraska  farmer.  The  play  becomes 
the  more  vivid  as  it  is  obvious  that  the  retiary 
meshes  with  which  she  ensnares  Athanael  are 
strong  enough  to  entangle  any  of  us.  Thais-be- 
come-nun  —  Evelyn  Innes  should  have  sung  this 
character  before  she  became  Sister  Teresa  —  is  in 
violent  contrast  to  these  opening  scenes,  but  the 
acts  in  the  desert,  as  the  Alexandrian  strumpet 
wilts  before  the  aroused  passion  of  the  monk,  are 
carried  through  with  equal  skill  by  this  artist  who 
is  an  adept  in  her  means  of  expression  and  ex- 
pressiveness. 

The  opera  is  sentimental,  theatrical,  and  over  its 
falsely  constructed  drama  —  a  perversion  of  Ana- 
tole  France's  psychological  tale  —  Massenet  has 
[70] 


Mary    Garden 

overlaid  as  banal  a  coverlet  of  music  as  could  well 
be  devised  by  an  eminent  composer.  "  The  bad 
fairies  have  given  him  [Massenet]  only  one  gift," 
writes  Pierre  Lalo,  ".  .  .  the  desire  to  please." 
It  cannot  be  said  that  Miss  Garden  allows  the 
music  to  affect  her  interpretation.  She  sings 
some  of  it,  particularly  her  part  in  the  duet  in 
the  desert,  with  considerable  charm  and  warmth 
of  tone.  I  have  never  cared  very  much  for  her 
singing  of  the  mirror  air,  although  she  is  dra- 
matically admirable  at  this  point ;  on  the  other 
hand,  I  have  found  her  rendering  of  the  fare- 
well to  Eros  most  pathetic  in  its  tenderness.  At 
times  she  has  attacked  the  high  notes,  which  fall 
in  unison  with  the  exposure  of  her  attractions, 
with  brilliancy ;  at  other  times  she  has  avoided 
them  altogether  (it  must  be  remembered  that 
Miss  Sanderson,  for  whom  this  opera  was  written, 
had  a  voice  like  the  Tour  Eiffel;  she  sang  to  G 
above  the  staff).  But  the  general  tone  of  her  in- 
terpretation has  not  been  weakened  by  the  weak- 
ness of  the  music  or  by  her  inability  to  sing  a  good 
deal  of  it.  Quite  the  contrary.  I  am  sure  she 
sings  the  part  with  more  steadiness  of  tone  than 
Milka  Ternina  ever  commanded  for  Tosca,  and 
her  performance  is  equally  unforgettable. 

After  the  production  of  Louise,  Miss  Garden's 
[71] 


Interpreters 

name  became  almost  legendary  in  Paris,  and  many 
are  the  histories  of  her  subsequent  career  there. 
Parisians  and  foreign  visitors  alike  flocked  to  the 
Opera-Comique  to  see  her  in  the  series  of  delight- 
ful roles  which  she  assumed  —  Orlanda,  Manon, 
Chrysis,  Violetta  .  .  .  and  Melisande.  It  was 
during  the  summer  of  1907  that  I  first  heard  her 
there  in  two  of  the  parts  most  closely  identified 
with  her  name,  Chrysis  and  Melisande. 

Camille  Erlanger's  Aphrodite,  considered  as  a 
work  of  art,  is  fairly  meretricious.  As  a  theatri- 
cal entertainment  it  offers  many  elements  of  en- 
joyment. Based  on  the  very  popular  novel  of 
Pierre  Louys  —  at  one  time  forbidden  circulation 
in  America  by  Anthony  Comstock  —  it  winds  its 
pernicious  way  through  a  tale  of  prostitution, 
murder,  theft,  sexual  inversion,  drunkenness,  sac- 
rilege, and  crucifixion,  and  concludes,  quite  sim- 
ply, in  a  cemetery.  The  music  is  appallingly 
banal,  and  has  never  succeeded  in  doing  anything 
else  but  annoy  me  when  I  have  thought  of  it  at 
all.  It  never  assists  in  creating  an  atmosphere; 
it  bears  no  relation  to  stage  picture,  characters,  or 
situation.  Both  gesture  and  colour  are  more  im- 
portant factors  in  the  consideration  of  the  pleas- 
urable elements  of  this  piece  than  the  weak  trickle 
of  its  sickly  melodic  flow. 
[72] 


Mary    Garden 

For  the  most  part,  at  a  performance,  one  does 
not  listen  to  the  music.  Nevertheless,  Aphrodite 
calls  one  again  and  again.  Its  success  in  Paris 
was  simply  phenomenal,  and  the  opera  is  still  in 
the  repertoire  of  the  Opera-Comique.  This  suc- 
cess was  due  in  a  measure  to  the  undoubted 
"  punch  "  of  the  story,  in  a  measure  to  the  orgy 
which  M.  Carre  had  contrived  to  embellish  the  third 
act,  culminating  in  the  really  imaginative  dancing 
of  the  beautiful  Regina  Badet  and  the  horrible 
scene  of  the  crucifixion  of  the  negro  slave ;  but, 
more  than  anything  else,  it  was  due  to  the  rarely 
compelling  performance  of  Mary  Garden  as  the 
courtesan  who  consented  to  exchange  her  body  for 
the  privilege  of  seeing  her  lover  commit  theft,  sac- 
rilege, and  murder.  In  her  bold  entrance,  flaunt- 
ing her  long  lemon  scarf,  wound  round  her  body 
like  a  Nautch  girl's  sari,  which  illy  concealed  her 
fine  movements,  she  at  once  gave  the  picture,  not 
alone  of  the  cocotte  of  the  period  but  of  a  whole 
life,  a  whole  atmosphere,  and  this  she  maintained 
throughout  the  disclosure  of  the  tableaux.  In  the 
prison  scene  she  attained  heights  of  tragic  acting 
which  I  do  not  think  even  she  has  surpassed  else- 
where. The  pathos  of  her  farewell  to  her  two  lit- 
tle Lesbian  friends,  and  the  gesture  with  which 
she  drained  the  poison  cup,  linger  in  the  memory, 
[73] 


I nterpreters 

refusing  to  give  up  their  places  to  less  potent 
details. 

I  first  heard  Debussy's  lyric  drama,  Pelleas  et 
Melisande  t  at  the  Opera-Comique,  with  Miss  Gar- 
den as  the  principal  interpreter.  It  is  generally 
considered  the  greatest  achievement  of  her  mimic 
art.  Somehow  by  those  means  at  the  command 
of  a  fine  artist,  she  subdued  her  very  definite  per- 
sonality and  moulded  it  into  the  vague  and  subtle 
personage  created  by  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  Even 
great  artists  grasp  at  straws  for  assistance,  and  it 
is  interesting  to  know  that  to  Miss  Garden  a  wig  is 
the  all  important  thing.  "  Once  I  have  donned  the 
wig  of  a  character,  I  am  that  character,"  she  told 
me  once.  "It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  go  on  the 
stage  in  my  own  hair."  Nevertheless,  I  believe  she 
has  occasionally  inconsistently  done  so  as  Louise. 

In  Miss  Garden's  score  of  Pelleas  Debussy  has 
written,  "In  the  future,  others  may  sing  Melisande, 
but  you  alone  will  remain  the  woman  and  the  artist 
I  had  hardly  dared  hope  for."  It  must  be  remem- 
bered, however,  that  composers  are  notoriously 
fickle;  that  they  prefer  having  their  operas  given 
in  any  form  rather  than  not  at  all;  that  ink  is 
cheap  and  musicians  prolific  in  sentiments.  In 
how  many  Manon  scores  did  Massenet  write  his 
tender  eternal  finalities?  Perhaps  little  Maggie 
[74] 


Mary    Garden 

Teyte,  who  imitated  Mary  Garden's  Melisande  as 
Elsie  Janis  imitates  Sarah  Bernhardt,  cherishes  a 
dedicated  score  now.  Memory  tells  me  I  have  seen 
such  a  score,  but  memory  is  sometimes  a  false 
jade. 

In  her  faded  mediaeval  gowns,  with  her  long 
plaits  of  golden  hair, —  in  the  first  scene  she  wore 
it  loose, —  Mary  Garden  became  at  once  in  the 
spectator's  mind  the  princess  of  enchanted  castles, 
the  cymophanous  heroine  of  a  f eerie,  the  dream  of 
a  poet's  tale.  In  gesture  and  in  musical  speech, 
in  tone-colour,  she  was  faithful  to  the  first  won- 
derful impression  of  the  eye.  There  has  been  in 
our  day  no  more  perfect  example  of  characteriza- 
tion offered  on  the  lyric  stage  than  Mary  Garden's 
lovely  Melisande.  .  .  .  Ne  me  touchez  pas!  became 
the  cry  of  a  terrified  child,  a  real  protestation  of 
innocence.  Je  ne  suis  pas  heureuse  id,  was  ut- 
tered with  a  pathos  of  expression  which  drove  its 
helplessness  into  our  hearts.  The  scene  at  the 
fountain  with  Pelleas,  in  which  Melisande  loses  her 
ring,  was  played  with  such  delicate  shading,  such 
poetic  imagination,  that  one  could  almost  crown 
the  interpreter  as  the  creator,  and  the  death 
scene  was  permeated  with  a  fragile,  simple  beauty 
as  compelling  as  that  which  Carpaccio  put  into 
his  picture  of  Santa  Ursula,  a  picture  indeed  which 
[75] 


Interpreters 

Miss  Garden's  performance  brought  to  mind  more 
than  once.  If  she  sought  inspiration  from  the  art 
of  the  painter  for  her  delineation,  it  was  not  to 
Rossetti  and  Burne-Jones  that  she  went.  Rather 
did  she  gather  some  of  the  soft  bloom  from  the 
paintings  of  Bellini,  Carpaccio,  Giotto,  Cimabue 
.  .  .  especially  Botticelli;  had  not  the  spirit  and 
the  mood  of  the  two  frescos  from  the  Villa  Lemmi  in 
the  Louvre  come  to  life  in  this  gentle  representa- 
tion ? 

Before  she  appeared  as  Melisande  in  New  York, 
Miss  Garden  was  a  little  doubtful  of  the  probable 
reception  of  the  play  here.  She  was  surprised  and 
delighted  with  the  result,  for  the  drama  was  pre- 
sented in  the  late  season  of  1907-08  at  the  Man- 
hattan Opera  House  no  less  than  seven  times  to 
very  large  audiences.  The  singer  talked  to  me  be- 
fore the  event :  "  It  took  us  four  years  to  estab- 
lish Pelleas  et  Melisande  in  the  repertoire  of  the 
Opera-Comique.  At  first  the  public  listened  with 
disfavour  or  indecision,  and  performances  could 
only  be  given  once  in  two  weeks.  As  a  contrast  I 
might  mention  the  immediate  success  of  Aphrodite, 
which  I  sang  three  or  four  times  a  week  until  fifty 
representations  had  been  achieved,  without  appear- 
ing in  another  role.  Pelleas  was  a  different  matter. 
The  mystic  beauty  of  the  poet's  mood  and  the  rev- 
[76] 


Mary    Garden 


olutionary  procedures  of  the  musician  were  not 
calculated  to  touch  the  great  public  at  once.  In- 
deed, we  had  to  teach  our  audiences  to  enjoy  it. 
Americans  who,  I  am  told,  are  fond  of  Maeter- 
linck, may  appreciate  its  very  manifest  beauty 
at  first  hearing,  but  they  didn't  in  Paris. 
At  the  early  representations,  individuals  whistled 
and  made  cat-calls.  One  night  three  young  men 
in  the  first  row  of  the  orchestra  whistled  through 
an  entire  scene.  I  don't  believe  those  young 
men  will  ever  forget  the  way  I  looked  at  them. 
.  .  .  But  after  each  performance  it  was  the 
same:  the  applause  drowned  out  the  hisses.  The 
balconies  and  galleries  were  the  first  to  catch 
the  spirit  of  the  piece,  and  gradually  it  grew 
in  public  favour,  and  became  a  success,  that 
is,  comparatively  speaking.  Pelleas  et  Melisande, 
like  many  another  work  of  true  beauty,  ap- 
peals to  a  limited  public  and,  consequently,  the 
number  of  performances  has  always  been  limited, 
and  perhaps  always  will  be.  I  do  not  anticipate 
that  it  will  crowd  from  popular  favour  such  operas 
as  Werther,  La  Vie  de  Boheme  and  Carmen,  each 
of  which  is  included  in  practically  every  week's 
repertoire  at  the  Opera-Comique. 

"  We  interpreters  of  Debussy's  lyric  drama  were 
naturally  very  proud,  because  we  felt  that  we  were 
[77] 


I nterp  reters 

assisting  in  the  making  of  musical  history.  Mae- 
terlinck, by  the  way,  has  never  seen  the  opera.  He 
wished  his  wife,  Georgette  Leblanc,  to  '  create  '  the 
role  of  Melisande,  but  Debussy  and  Carre  had 
chosen  me,  and  the  poet  did  not  have  his  way.  He 
wrote  an  open  letter  to  the  newspapers  of  Paris  in 
which  he  frankly  expressed  his  hope  that  the  work 
would  fail.  Later,  when  composers  approached 
him  in  regard  to  setting  his  dramas  to  music,  he 
made  it  a  condition  that  his  wife  should  sing  them. 
She  did  appear  as  Ariane,  you  will  remember,  but 
Lucienne  Breval  first  sang  Monna  Vanna,  and 
Maeterlinck's  wrath  again  vented  itself  in  pronun- 
ciamentos." 

Miss  Garden  spoke  of  the  settings.  "  The 
decor  should  be  dark  and  sombre.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell set  the  play  in  the  Renaissance  period,  an 
epoch  flooded  with  light  and  charm.  I  think  she 
was  wrong.  Absolute  latitude  is  permitted  the 
stage  director,  as  Maeterlinck  has  made  no  re- 
strictions in  the  book.  The  director  of  the 
Opera  at  Brussels  followed  Mrs.  Campbell's  ex- 
ample, and  when  I  appeared  in  the  work  there 
I  felt  that  I  was  singing  a  different  drama." 

One  afternoon  in  the  autumn  of  1908,  when 
I  was  Paris  correspondent  of  the  "  New  York 
Times,"  I  received  the  following  telegram  from 
[78] 


Mary    Garden 

Miss  Garden :  "  Venez  ce  soir  a  5^/2  chez  Mile. 
Chasles  112  Boulevard  Malesherbes  me  voir  en 
Salome."  It  was  late  in  the  day  when  the  mes- 
sage came  to  me,  and  I  had  made  other  plans,  but 
you  may  be  sure  I  put  them  all  aside.  A  petit- 
bleu  or  two  disposed  of  my  engagements,  and  I 
took  a  fiacre  in  the  blue  twilight  of  the  Paris  aft- 
ernoon for  the  salle  de  danse  of  Mile.  Chasles. 
On  my  way  I  recollected  how  some  time  previously 
Miss  Garden  had  informed  me  of  her  intention  of 
interpreting  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils  herself, 
and  how  she  had  attempted  to  gain  the  co-opera- 
tion of  Maraquita,  the  ballet  mistress  of  the 
Opera-Comique,  a  plan  which  she  was  forced  to 
abandon,  owing  to  some  rapidly  revolving  wheels 
of  operatic  intrigue.  So  the  new  Salome  went  to 
Mile.  Chasles,  who  sixteen  years  ago  was  delight- 
ing the  patrons  of  the  Opera-Comique  with  her 
charming  dancing.  She  it  was  who,  materially 
assisted  by  Miss  Garden  herself,  arranged  the 
dance,  dramatically  significant  in  gesture  and 
step,  which  the  singer  performed  at  the  climax  of 
Richard  Strauss's  music  drama. 

Mile.  Chasles's  salle  de  danse  I  discovered  to  be 
a  large  square  room ;  the  floor  had  a  rake  like  that 
of  the  Opera  stage  in  Paris.     There  were  foot- 
lights, and  seats  in  front  of  them  for  spectators. 
[79] 


I nterpreters 

The  walls  were  hung  with  curious  old  prints  and 
engravings  of  famous  dancers,  Mile.  Salle,  La  Ca- 
margo,  Taglioni,  Carlotta  Grisi,  and  Cerito. 

This  final  rehearsal  —  before  the  rehearsals  in 
New  York  which  preceded  her  first  appearance  in 
the  part  anywhere  at  the  Manhattan  Opera  House 
— -was  witnessed  by  Andre  Messager,  who  in- 
tended to  mount  Salome  at  the  Paris  Opera  the 
following  season,  Mile.  Chasles,  an  accompanist,  a 
maid,  a  hair-dresser,  and  myself.  I  noted  that 
Miss  Garden's  costume  differed  in  a  marked  de- 
gree from  those  her  predecessors  had  worn.  For 
the  entrance  of  Salome  she  had  provided  a  mantle 
of  bright  orange  shimmering  stuff,  embroidered 
with  startling  azure  and  emerald  flowers  and 
sparkling  with  spangles.  Under  this  she  wore  a 
close-fitting  garment  of  netted  gold,  with  de- 
signs in  rubies  and  rhinestones,  which  fell  from 
somewhere  above  the  waistline  to  her  ankles.  This 
garment  was  also  removed  for  the  dance,  and  Miss 
Garden  emerged  in  a  narrow  strip  of  flesh-coloured 
tulle.  Her  arms,  shoulders,  and  legs  were  bare. 
She  wore  a  red  wig,  the  hair  falling  nearly  to  her 
waist  (later  she  changed  this  detail  and  wore  the 
cropped  wig  which  became  identified  with  her  im- 
personation of  the  part).  Two  jewels,  an  emer- 
ald on  one  little  finger,  a  ruby  on  the  other,  com- 
[80]  ' 


Mary    Garden 

pleted  her  decoration.  The  seven  veils  were  of 
soft,  clinging  tulle. 

Swathed  in  these  veils,  she  began  the  dance  at 
the  back  of  the  small  stage.  Only  her  eyes  were 
visible.  Terrible,  slow  .  .  .  she  undulated  for- 
ward, swaying  gracefully,  and  dropped  the  first 
veil.  What  followed  was  supposed  to  be  the  un- 
doing of  the  jaded  Herod.  I  was  moved  by  this 
spectacle  at  the  time,  and  subsequently  this  pan- 
tomimic dance  was  generally  referred  to  as  the  cul- 
minating moment  in  her  impersonation  of  Salome. 
On  this  occasion,  I  remember,  she  proved  to  us 
that  the  exertion  had  not  fatigued  her,  by  singing 
the  final  scene  of  the  music  drama,  while  Andre 
Messager  played  the  accompaniment  on  the  piano. 

I  did  not  see  Mary  Garden's  impetuous  and 
highly  curious  interpretation  of  the  strange  east- 
ern princess  until  a  full  year  later,  as  I  remained 
in  Paris  during  the  extent  of  the  New  York  opera 
season.  The  following  autumn,  however,  I  heard 
Salome  in  its  second  season  at  the  Manhattan 
Opera  House  —  and  I  was  disappointed.  Ner- 
vous curiosity  seemed  to  be  the  consistent  note  of 
this  hectic  interpretation.  The  singer  was  never 
still ;  her  use  of  gesture  was  untiring.  To  any  one 
who  had  not  seen  her  in  other  parts,  the  actress 
must  have  seemed  utterly  lacking  in  repose.  This 
[81] 


I nterp  reters 

was  simply  her  means,  however,  of  suggesting  the 
intense  nervous  perversity  of  Salome.  Mary  Gar- 
den could  not  have  seen  Nijinsky  in  Scheherazade 
at  this  period,  and  yet  the  performances  were 
astonishingly  similar  in  intention.  But  the 
Strauss  music  and  the  Wilde  drama  demand  a 
more  voluptuous  and  sensual  treatment,  it  would 
seem  to  me,  than  the  suggestion  of  monkey-love 
which  absolutely  suited  Nijinsky's  part.  How- 
ever, the  general  opinion  (as  often  happens)  ran 
counter  to  mine,  and,  aside  from  the  reservation 
that  Miss  Garden's  voice  was  unable  to  cope  with 
the  music,  the  critics,  on  the  whole,  gave  her  credit 
for  an  interesting  performance.  Indeed,  in  this 
music  drama  she  made  one  of  the  great  popular 
successes  of  her  career,  a  career  which  has 
been  singularly  full  of  appreciated  achieve- 
ments. 

Chicago  saw  Mary  Garden  in  Salome  a  year 
later,  and  Chicago  gasped,  as  New  York  had 
gasped  when  the  drama  was  performed  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan Opera  House.  The  police  —  no  less  an 
authority  —  put  a  ban  on  future  performances 
at  the  Auditorium.  Miss  Garden  was  not  pleased, 
and  she  expressed  her  displeasure  in  the  frankest 
terms.  I  received  at  that  time  a  series  of  char- 
acteristic telegrams.  One  of  them  read :  "  My 
[82] 


Mary    Garden 

art  is  going  through  the  torture  of  slow  death. 
Oh  Paris,  splendeur  de  mes  desirs !  " 

It  was  with  the  (then)  Philadelphia-Chicago 
Opera  Company  that  Miss  Garden  made  her  first 
experiment  with  opera  in  English,  earning  thereby 
the  everlasting  gratitude  and  admiration  — 
which  she  already  possessed  in  no  small  measure 
—  of  Charles  Henry  Meltzer.  She  was  not  san- 
guine before  the  event.  In  January,  1911,  she 
said  to  me :  "  No,  malgre  Tito  Ricordi,  NO !  I 
don't  believe  in  opera  in  English,  I  never  have  be- 
lieved in  it,  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  believe 
in  it.  Of  course  I'm  willing  to  be  convinced.  You 
see,  in  the  first  place,  I  think  all  music  dramas 
should  be  sung  in  the  languages  in  which  they  are 
written;  well,  that  makes  it  impossible  to  sing 
anything  in  the  current  repertoire  in  English, 
doesn't  it?  The  only  hope  for  opera  in  English, 
so  far  as  I  can  see  it,  lies  in  America  or  England 
producing  a  race  of  composers,  and  they  haven't 
it  in  them.  It  isn't  in  the  blood.  Composition 
needs  Latin  blood,  or  something  akin  to  it;  the 
Anglo-Saxon  or  the  American  can't  write  music, 
great  music,  at  least  not  yet.  ...  I  doubt  if  any 
of  us  alive  to-day  will  live  to  hear  a  great  work 
written  to  a  libretto  in  our  own  language. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  sing  Victor  Herbert's 
[83] 


Interpreters 

Natoma,  in  spite  of  what  I  have  just  told  you, 
because  I  don't  want  to  have  it  said  that  I  have 
done  anything  to  hinder  what  is  now  generally 
known  as  '  the  cause.'  For  the  first  time  a  work 
by  a  composer  who  may  be  regarded  as  American 
is  to  be  given  a  chance  with  the  best  singers,  with 
a  great  orchestra,  and  a  great  conductor,  in  the 
leading  opera  house  in  America  —  perhaps  the 
leading  opera  house  anywhere.  It  seems  to  me 
that  every  one  who  can  should  put  his  shoulder 
to  this  kind  of  wheel  and  set  it  moving.  I  shall 
be  better  pleased  than  anybody  else  if  Natoma 
proves  a  success  and  paves  the  way  for  the  suc- 
cessful production  of  other  American  lyric 
dramas.  Of  course  Natoma  cannot  be  regarded 
as  *  grand  opera.'  It  is  not  music,  like  Tristan, 
for  instance.  It  is  more  in  the  style  of  the  lighter 
operas  which  are  given  in  Paris,  but  it  possesses 
much  melodic  charm  and  it  may  please  the  public. 
I  shall  sing  it  and  I  shall  try  to  do  it  just  as  well 
as  I  have  tried  to  do  Salome  and  Thais  and  Meli- 
sande." 

She  kept  her  word,  and  out  of  the  hodge-podge 
of  an  opera  book  which  stands  unrivalled  for  its 
stiltedness  of  speech,  she  succeeded  in  creating 
one  of  her  most  notable  characters.  She  threw 
vanity  aside  in  making  up  for  the  role,  painting 
[84] 


Mary    Garden 

her  face  and  body  a  dark  brown;  she  wore  two 
long  straight  braids  of  hair,  depending  on  either 
side  from  the  part  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 
Her  garment  was  of  buckskin,  and  moccasins  cov- 
ered her  feet.  She  crept  rather  than  walked. 
The  story,  as  might  be  imagined,  was  one  of  love 
and  self-sacrifice,  touching  here  and  there  on  the 
preserves  of  L'Africaine  and  Lakme,  the  whole 
concluding  with  the  voluntary  immersion  of  Na- 
toma  in  a  convent.  Fortunately,  the  writer  of  the 
book  remembered  that  Miss  Garden  had  danced  in 
Salome  and  he  introduced  a  similar  pantomimic 
episode  in  Natoma,  a  dagger  dance,  which  was  one 
of  the  interesting  points  in  the  action.  The  music 
suited  her  voice;  she  delivered  a  good  deal  of  it 
almost  parlando,  and  the  vapid  speeches  of  Mr. 
Redding  tripped  so  audibly  off  her  tongue  that 
their  banality  became  painfully  apparent. 

The  story  has  often  been  related  how  Massenet, 
piqued  by  the  frequently  repeated  assertion  that 
his  muse  was  only  at  his  command  when  he  de- 
picted female  frailty,  determined  to  write  an  opera 
in  which  only  one  woman  was  to  appear,  and  she 
was  to  be  both  mute  and  a  virgin !  Le  Jongleur 
de  Notre  Dame,  perhaps  the  most  poetically  con- 
ceived of  Massenet's  lyric  dramas,  was  the  result 
of  this  decision.  Until  Mr.  Hammerstein  made 
[85] 


Interpreters 

up  his  mind  to  produce  the  opera,  the  role  of  Jean 
had  invariably  been  sung  by  a  man.  Mr.  Ham- 
merstein  thought  that  Americans  would  prefer  a 
woman  in  the  part.  He  easily  enlisted  the  inter- 
est of  Miss  Garden  in  this  scheme,  and  Massenet, 
it  is  said,  consented  to  make  certain  changes  in 
the  score.  The  taste  of  the  experiment  was 
doubtful,  but  it  was  one  for  which  there  had  been 
much  precedent.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  linger  on 
Sarah  Bernhardt's  assumption  of  the  roles  of 
Hamlet,  Shylock,  and  the  Due  de  Reichstadt.  In 
the  "golden  period  of  song,"  Orfeo  was  not  the 
only  man's  part  sung  by  a  woman.  Mme.  Pasta 
frequently  appeared  as  Romeo  in  Zingarelli's  opera 
and  as  Tancredi,  and  she  also  sang  Otello  on  one 
occasion  when  Henrietta  Sontag  was  the  Desde- 
mona.  The  role  of  Orfeo,  I  believe,  was  written 
originally  for  a  castrato,  and  later,  when  the  work 
was  refurbished  for  production  at  what  was  then 
the  Paris  Opera,  Gluck  allotted  the  role  to  a  tenor. 
Now  it  is  sung  by  a  woman  as  invariably  as  are 
Stephano  in  Romeo  et  Juliette  and  Siebel  in  Faust. 
There  is  really  more  excuse  for  the  masquerade  of 
sex  in  Massenet's  opera.  The  timid,  pathetic 
little  juggler,  ridiculous  in  his  inefficiency,  is  a 
part  for  which  tenors,  as  they  exist  to-day,  seem 
manifestly  unsuited.  And  certainly  no  tenor 
[86] 


Mary    Garden 

could  hope  to  make  the  appeal  in  the  part  that 
Mary  Garden  did.  In  the  second  act  she  found 
it  difficult  to  entirely  conceal  the  suggestion  of 
her  sex  under  the  monk's  robe,  but  the  sad  little 
figure  of  the  first  act  and  the  adorable  juggler  of 
the  last,  performing  his  imbecile  tricks  before  Our 
Lady's  altar,  were  triumphant  details  of  an  ar- 
tistic impersonation;  on  the  whole,  one  of  Miss 
Garden's  most  moving  performances. 

Miss  Garden  has  sung  Faust  many  times.  Are 
there  many  sopranos  who  have  not,  whatever  the 
general  nature  of  their  repertoires?  She  is  very 
lovely  in  the  role  of  Marguerite.  I  have  indicated 
elsewhere  her  skill  in  endowing  the  part  with  po- 
etry and  imaginative  force  without  making  ducks 
and  drakes  of  the  traditions.  In  the  garden 
scene  she  gave  an  exhibition  of  her  power  to  paint 
a  fanciful  fresco  on  a  wall  already  surcharged 
with  colour,  a  charming,  wistful  picture.  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  else  so  effective  in  the  church 
and  prison  scenes ;  no  one  else,  it  seems  to  me,  has 
so  tenderly  conceived  the  plight  of  the  simple 
German  girl.  The  opera  of  Romeo  et  Juliette 
does  not  admit  of  such  serious  dramatic  treatment, 
and  Thomas's  Hamlet,  as  a  play,  is  absolutely 
ridiculous.  After  the  mad  scene,  for  example,  the 
stage  directions  read  that  the  ballet  "  waltzes 
[87] 


Interpreters 

sadly  away."  I  saw  Mary  Garden  play  Ophelie 
once  at  the  Paris  Opera,  and  I  must  admit  that  I 
was  amused;  I  think  she  was  amused  too!  I  was 
equally  amused  some  years  later  when  I  heard 
Titta  Ruffo  sing  the  opera.  I  am  afraid  I  can- 
not take  Hamlet  as  a  lyric  drama  seriously. 

In  Paris,  Violetta  is  one  of  Miss  Garden's  pop- 
ular roles.  When  she  came  to  America  she  fan- 
cied she  might  sing  the  part  here.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  a  thin  Violetta?  "  she  asked  the  reporters. 
But  so  far  she  has  not  appeared  in  La  Traviata 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  although  Robert  Hich- 
ens  wrote  me  that  he  had  recently  heard  her  in 
this  opera  at  the  Paris  Opera-Comique.  He 
added  that  her  impersonation  was  most  interest- 
ing. 

To  me  one  of  the  most  truly  fascinating  of 
Miss  Garden's  characterizations  was  her  Fanny 
Legrand  in  Daudet's  play,  made  into  an  opera 
by  Massenet.  Sapho,  as  a  lyric  drama,  did  not 
have  a  success  in  New  York.  I  think  only  three 
performances  were  given  at  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House.  The  professional  writers,  with  one  excep- 
tion, found  nothing  to  praise  in  Miss  Garden's  re- 
markable impersonation  of  Fanny.  And  yet,  as  I 
have  said,  it  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  most  moving 
of  her  interpretations.  In  the  opening  scenes  she 
[88] 


Mary    Garden 

was  the  trollop,  no  less,  that  Fanny  was.  The 
pregnant  line  of  the  first  act:  Artiste?  .  .  . 
Xon.  .  .  .  Tant  mieux.  J'ai  contre  tout  artiste 
une  haine  implacable!  was  spoken  in  a  manner 
which  bared  the  woman's  heart  to  the  sophisti- 
cated. The  scene  in  which  she  sang  the  song  of 
the  Magali  (the  Provencal  melody  which  Mistral 
immortalized  in  a  poem,  which  Gounod  introduced 
into  Mireille,  and  which  found  its  way,  inexplic- 
ably, into  the  ballet  of  Berlioz's  Les  Troyens  a 
Carthage),  playing  her  own  accompaniment,  to 
Jean,  was  really  too  wonderful  a  caricature  of  the 
harlot.  Abel  Faivre  and  Paul  Guillaume  have 
done  no  better.  The  scene  in  which  Fanny  re- 
viles her  former  associates  for  telling  Jean  the 
truth  about  her  past  life  was  revolting  in  its  real- 
ism. 

If  Miss  Garden  spared  no  details  in  making  us 
acquainted  with  Fanny's  vulgarity,  she  was 
equally  fair  to  her  in  other  respects.  She  seemed 
to  be  continually  guiding  the  spectator  with  com- 
ment something  like  this :  "  See  how  this  woman 
can  suffer,  and  she  is  a  woman,  like  any  other 
woman."  How  small  the  means,  the  effect  con- 
sidered, by  which  she  produced  the  pathos  of  the 
last  scene.  At  the  one  performance  I  saw  half  the 
people  in  the  audience  were  in  tears.  There  was 
[89] 


Interpreters 

a  dismaying  display  of  handkerchiefs.  Sapho  sat 
in  the  window,  smoking  a  cigarette,  surveying  the 
room  in  which  she  had  been  happy  with  Jean,  and 
preparing  to  say  good-by.  In  the  earlier  scenes 
her  cigarette  had  aided  her  in  making  vulgar  ges- 
tures. Now  she  relied  on  it  to  tell  the  pitiful  tale 
of  the  woman's  loneliness.  How  she  clung  to  that 
cigarette,  how  she  sipped  comfort  from  it,  and  how 
tiny  it  was !  Mary  Garden's  Sapho,  which  may 
never  be  seen  on  the  stage  again  (Massenet's  music 
is  perhaps  his  weakest  effort),  was  an  extraordi- 
nary piece  of  stage  art.  That  alone  would  have 
proclaimed  her  an  interpreter  of  genius. 

George  Moore,  somewhere,  evolves  a  fantastic 
theory  that  a  writer's  name  may  have  determined 
his  talent :  "  Dickens  —  a  mean  name,  a  name 
without  atmosphere,  a  black  out-of-elbows,  back- 
stairs name,  a  name  good  enough  for  loud  comedy 
and  louder  pathos.  John  Milton  —  a  splendid 
name  for  a  Puritan  poet.  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne  —  only  a  name  for  a  reed  through 
which  every  wind  blows  music.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  a 
fact  that  we  find  no  fine  names  among  novelists. 
We  find  only  colourless  names,  dry-as-dust  names, 
or  vulgar  names,  round  names  like  pot-hats,  those 
names  like  mackintoshes,  names  that  are  squashy 
as  goloshes.  We  have  charged  Scott  with  a  lack 
[90] 


Mary    Garden 

of  personal  passion,  but  could  personal  passion 
dwell  in  such  a  jog-trot  name  —  a  round-faced 
name,  a  snub-nosed,  spectacled,  pot-bellied  name, 
a  placid,  beneficent,  worthy  old  bachelor  name,  a 
name  that  evokes  all  conventional  ideas  and  form- 
ulas, a  Grub  Street  name,  a  nerveless  name,  an 
arm-chair  name,  an  old  oak  and  Abbotsford  name? 
And  Thackeray's  name  is  a  poor  one  —  the  sylla- 
bles clatter  like  plates.  *  We  shall  want  the  car- 
riage at  half-past  two,  Thackeray.'  Dickens  is 
surely  a  name  for  a  page  boy.  George  Eliot's 
real  name,  Marian  Evans,  is  a  chaw-bacon,  thick- 
loined  name."  So  far  as  I  know  Mr.  Moore  has 
not  expanded  his  theory  to  include  a  discussion  of 
acrobats,  revivalists,  necromancers,  free  versifiers, 
camel  drivers,  paying  tellers,  painters,  pugilists, 
architects,  and  opera  singers.  Many  of  the  lat- 
ter have  taken  no  chances  with  their  own  names. 
Both  Pauline  and  Maria  Garcia  adopted  the 
names  of  their  husbands.  Garcia  possibly  sug- 
gests a  warrior,  but  do  Malibran  and  Viardot 
make  us  think  of  music?  Nellie  Melba's  name 
evokes  an  image  of  a  cold  marble  slab  but  if  she 
had  retained  her  original  name  of  Mitchell  it 
would  have  been  no  better  .  .  .  Marcella  Sem- 
brich,  a  name  made  famous  by  the  genius  and  in- 
defatigable labour  of  its  bearer,  surely  not  a  good 
[91] 


Interpreters 

name  for  an  operatic  soprano.  Her  own  name, 
Kochanska,  sounds  Polish  and  patriotic  .  .  .  Luisa 
Tetrazzini,  a  silly,  fussy  name  .  .  .  Emma  Calve 
.  .  .  Since  Madame  Bovary  the  name  Emma  sug- 
gests a  solid  bourgeois  foundation,  a  country  fam- 
ily. .  .  .  Emma  Eames,  a  chilly  name  ...  a 
wind  from  the  East !  Was  it  Philip  Hale  who  re- 
marked that  she  sang  Who  is  Sylvia?  as  if  the 
woman  were  not  on  her  calling  list?  .  .  .  Lillian 
Nordica,  an  evasion.  Lillian  Norton  is  a  sturdy 
work-a-day  name,  suggesting  a  premonition  of  a 
thousand  piano  rehearsals  for  Isolde  .  .  .  Jo- 
hanna Gadski,  a  coughing  raucous  name  .  .  . 
Geraldine  Farrar,  tomboyish  and  impertinent, 
Melrose  with  a  French  sauce  .  .  .  Edyth  Walker, 
a  militant  suffragette  name  .  .  .  Surely  Lucrezia 
Bori  and  Maria  Barrientos  are  ill-made  names  for 
singers  .  .  .  Adelina  Patti  —  a  patty-cake,  pat- 
ty-cake, baker's  man,  sort  of  a  name  .  .  .  Alboni, 
strong-hearted  .  .  .  Scalchi  .  .  .  ugh!  Further 
evidence  could  be  brought  forward  to  prove  that 
singers  succeed  in  spite  of  their  names  rather  than 
because  of  them  .  .  .  until  we  reach  the  name  of 
Mary  Garden.  .  .  .  The  subtle  fragrance  of  this 
name  has  found  its  way  into  many  hearts.  Since 
Nell  Gwyn  no  such  scented  cognomen,  redolent  of 
cuckoo's  boots,  London  pride,  blood-red  poppies, 
[92] 


Mary    Garden 

purple  fox-gloves,  lemon  stocks,  and  vermillion 
zinnias,  has  blown  its  delightful  odour  across  our 
scene.  .  .  .  Delightful  and  adorable  Mary  Gar- 
den, the  fragile  Thais,  pathetic  Jean  .  .  .  unfor- 
gettable Melisande.  .  .  . 

October  10, 1916. 


[93] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

Do  I  contradict  myself? 

Very  well,  then,  I  contradict  myself;" 

Walt  Whitman. 


Feodor    Chaliapine 


FEODOR  CHALIAPINE,  the  Russian  bass 
singer,  appeared  in  New  York  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  then  under  the 
direction  of  Heinrich  Conried,  during  the  season 
of  1907-08.  He  made  his  American  debut  on 
Wednesday  evening,  November  20,  1907,  when  he 
impersonated  the  title  part  of  Boito's  opera, 
Mefistofele.  He  was  heard  here  altogether  seven 
times  in  this  role;  six  times  as  Basilio  in  II  Bar- 
bier e  di  Siviglia;  three  times  as  Mephistopheles  in 
Gounod's  Faust;  three  times  as  Leporello  in  Don 
Giovanni;  and  at  several  Sunday  night  concerts. 
He  also  appeared  with  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Company  in  Philadelphia,  and  possibly  elsewhere. 
I  first  met  this  remarkable  artist  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Hotel  Savoy  on  a  rainy  Sunday  after- 
noon, soon  after  his  arrival  in  America.  His  per- 
sonality made  a  profound  impression  on  me,  as 
may  be  gathered  from  some  lines  from  an  article  I 
wrote  which  appeared  the  next  morning  in  the 
"  New  York  Times  " :  "  The  newest  operatic 
acquisition  to  arrive  in  New  York  is  neither  a 
prima  donna  soprano,  nor  an  Italian  tenor  with  a 
high  C,  but  a  big,  broad-shouldered  boy,  with  a 
kindly  smile  and  a  deep  bass  voice,  .  .  .  thirty- 
[97] 


I nterpreters 

four  years  old.  .  .  .  *  I  spik  English,'  were  his 
first  words.  *  How  do  you  do?  et  puis  good-by, 
et  puis  I  drrrink,  you  drrink,  he  drrrrinks,  et  puis 
I  love  you ! '  .  .  .  Mr.  Chaliapine  looked  like  a 
great  big  boy,  a  sophomore  in  college,  who  played 
football."  (Pitts  Sanborn  soon  afterwards 
felicitously  referred  to  him  as  ce  doux  geant,  a 
name  often  applied  to  Turgeniev.) 

I  have  given  the  extent  of  the  Russian's  English 
vocabulary  at  this  time,  and  I  soon  discovered 
that  it  was  not  accident  which  had  caused  him  first 
to  learn  to  conjugate  the  verb  "to  drink";  an- 
other English  verb  he  learned  very  quickly  was 
"  to  eat."  Some  time  later,  after  his  New  York 
debut,  I  sought  him  out  again  to  urge  him  to 
give  a  synopsis  of  his  original  conception  for  a 
performance  of  Gounod's  Faust.  The  interview 
which  ensued  was  the  longest  I  have  ever  had  with 
any  one.  It  began  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing and  lasted  until  a  like  hour  in  the  evening, — 
it  might  have  lasted  much  longer, —  and  during 
this  whole  time  we  sat  at  table  in  Mr.  Chalia- 
pine's  own  chamber  at  the  Brevoort,  whither  he 
had  repaired  to  escape  steam  heat,  while  he  con- 
sumed vast  quantities  of  food  and  drink.  I  re- 
member a  detail  of  six  plates  of  onion  soup.  I 
have  never  seen  any  one  else  eat  so  much  or  so 
[98] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

continuously,  or  with  so  little  lethargic  effect. 
Indeed,  intemperance  seemed  only  to  make  him 
more  light-hearted,  ebullient,  and  Brobdingna- 
gian.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  placed  his  own 
record  of  the  Marseillaise  in  the  victrola,  and 
then  amused  himself  (and  me)  by  singing  the 
song  in  unison  with  the  record,  in  an  attempt  to 
drown  out  the  mechanical  sound.  He  succeeded. 
The  effect  in  this  moderately  small  hotel  room  can 
only  be  faintly  conceived. 

Exuberant  is  the  word  which  best  describes 
Chaliapine  off  the  stage.  I  remember  another 
occasion  a  year  later  when  I  met  him,  just  re- 
turned from  South  America,  on  the  Boulevard  in 
Paris.  He  grasped  my  hand  warmly  and  begged 
me  to  come  to  see  his  zoo.  He  had,  in  fact,  trans- 
formed the  saUe  de  bain  in  his  suite  at  the  Grand 
Hotel  into  a  menagerie.  There  were  two 
monkeys,  a  cockatoo,  and  many  other  birds  of 
brilliant  plumage,  while  two  large  alligators  dozed 
in  the  tub. 

My  third  interview  with  this  singer  took  place 
a  day  or  so  before  he  returned  to  Europe.  He 
had  been  roughly  handled  by  the  New  York 
critics,  treatment.,  it  is  said,  which  met  with  the 
approval  of  Heinrich  Conried,  who  had  no  desire 
to  retain  in  his  company  a  bass  who  demanded  six- 
[99] 


Interpreters 

teen  hundred  dollars  a  night,  a  high  salary  for  a 
soprano  or  a  tenor.  Stung  by  this  defeat  —  en- 
tirely imaginary,  by  the  way,  as  his  audiences  here 
were  as  large  and  enthusiastic  as  they  are  any- 
where —  the  only  one,  in  fact,  which  he  has  suf- 
fered in  his  career  up  to  date,  Chaliapine  was  ex- 
tremely frank  in  his  attitude.  My  interview, 
published  on  the  first  page  of  the  "  New  York 
Times,"  created  a  small  sensation  in  operatic 
circles.  The  meat  of  it  follows.  Chaliapine  is 
speaking: 

"  Criticism  in  New  York  is  not  profound.  It 
is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  to  be  a  good 
critical  writer.  I  am  a  singer,  but  the  critic  has 
no  right  to  regard  me  merely  as  a  singer.  He 
must  observe  my  acting,  my  make-up,  everything. 
And  he  must  understand  and  know  about  these 
things. 

"  Opera  is  not  a  fixed  art.  It  is  not  like 
music,  poetry,  sculpture,  painting,  or  architec- 
ture, but  a  combination  of  all  of  these.  And  the 
critic  who  goes  to  the  opera  should  have  studied 
all  these  arts.  While  a  study  of  these  arts  is 
essential,  there  is  something  else  that  the  critic 
cannot  get  by  study,  and  that  is  the  soul  to  under- 
stand. That  he  must  be  born  with. 

"  I  am  not  a  professional  critic,  but  I  could  be. 
[100] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

I  have  associated  with  musicians,  painters,  and 
writers,  and  I  know  something  of  all  these  arts. 
As  a  consequence  when  I  read  a  criticism,  I  see 
immediately  what  is  true  and  what  is  false.  Very 
often  I  think  a  man's  tongue  is  his  worst  enemy. 
However,  sometimes  a  man  keeps  quiet  to  conceal 
his  mental  weakness.  We  have  a  Russian  proverb 
which  says,  *  Keep  quiet ;  don't  tease  the  geese.' 
You  can't  judge  of  a  man's  intelligence  until  he 
begins  to  talk  or  write. 

"  I  have  been  sometimes  adversely  criticized 
during  the  course  of  my  artistic  life.  The  most 
profound  of  these  criticisms  have  taught  me  to 
correct  my  faults.  But  I  have  learned  nothing 
from  the  criticisms  I  have  received  in  New  York. 
After  searching  my  inner  consciousness,  I  find 
they  are  not  based  on  a  true  understanding  of  my 
artistic  purposes.  For  instance,  the  critics 
found  my  Don  Basilic  a  dirty,  repulsive  creature. 
One  man  even  said  that  I  was  offensive  to  another 
singer  on  the  stage !  Don  Basilio  is  a  Spanish 
priest;  it  is  a  type  I  know  well.  He  is  not  like 
the  modern  American  priest,  clean  and  well- 
groomed;  he  is  dirty  and  unkempt;  he  is  a  beast, 
and  that  is  what  I  make  him,  a  comic  beast,  but 
the  critics  would  prefer  a  softer  version.  ...  It 
is  unfair,  indeed,  to  judge  me  at  all  on  the  parts  I 
[101] 


Interpreters 

have  sung  here,  outside  of  Mefistofele,  for  most 
of  my  best  roles  are  in  Russian  operas,  which  are 
not  in  the  repertoire  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House. 

"  The  contemporary  direction  of  this  theatre 
believes  in  tradition.  It  is  afraid  of  anything 
new.  There  is  no  movement.  It  has  not  the 
courage  to  produce  novelties,  and  the  artists  are 
prevented  from  giving  original  conceptions  of  old 
roles. 

"  New  York  is  a  vast  seething  inferno  of  busi- 
ness. Nothing  but  business !  The  men  are  so 
tired  when  they  get  through  work  that  they  want 
recreation  and  sleep.  They  don't  want  to  study. 
They  don't  want  to  be  thrilled  or  aroused.  They 
are  content  to  listen  forever  to  Faust  and  Lucia. 

"  In  Europe  it  is  different.  There  you  will  find 
the  desire  for  novelty  in  the  theatre.  There  is  a 
keen  interest  in  the  production  of  a  new  work.  It 
is  all  right  to  enjoy  the  old  things,  but  one  should 
see  life.  The  audience  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  reminds  me  of  a  family  that  lives  in  the 
country  and  won't  travel.  It  is  satisfied  with  the 
same  view  of  the  same  garden  forever.  .  .  ." 

Feodor  Ivanovich  Chaliapine  was  born  Feb- 
ruary 13  (February  1,  old  style),  1873,  in  Kazan; 
he  is  of  peasant  descent.  It  is  said  that  he  is  al- 
[102] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

most  entirely  self-educated,  both  musically  and  in- 
tellectually. He  worked  for  a  time  in  a  shoe- 
maker's shop,  sang  in  the  archbishop's  choir  and, 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  joined  a  local  operetta 
company.  He  seems  to  have  had  difficulty  in  col- 
lecting a  salary  from  this  latter  organization,  and 
often  worked  as  a  railway  porter  in  order  to  keep 
alive.  Later  he  joined  a  travelling  theatrical 
troupe,  which  visited  the  Caucasus.  In  1892, 
Oussatov,  a  singer,  heard  Chaliapine  in  Tiflis, 
gave  him  some  lessons,  and  got  him  an  engage- 
ment. 

He  made  his  debut  in  opera  in  Glinka's  A  Life 
for  the  Czar  (according  to  Mrs.  Newmarch;  my 
notes  tell  me  that  it  was  Gounod's  Faust).  He 
sang  at  the  Summer  and  Panaevsky  theatres  in 
Petrograd  in  1894 ;  and  the  following  year  he  was 
engaged  at  the  Maryinsky  Theatre,  but  the 
directors  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  they  had 
captured  one  of  the  great  figures  of  the  contem- 
porary lyric  stage,  and  he  was  not  permitted  to 
sing  very  often.  In  1896,  Mamantov,  lawyer  and 
millionaire,  paid  the  fine  which  released  the  bass 
from  the  Imperial  Opera  House,  and  invited  him 
to  join  the  Private  Opera  Company  in  Moscow, 
where  Chaliapine  immediately  proved  his  worth. 
He  became  the  idol  of  the  public,  and  it  was  not 
[103] 


I nterpreters 

unusual  for  those  who  admired  striking  imper- 
sonations on  the  stage  to  journey  from  Petrograd 
to  see  and  hear  him.  In  1899  he  was  engaged  to 
sing  at  the  Imperial  Opera  in  Moscow  at  sixty 
thousand  roubles  a  year.  Since  then  he  has  ap- 
peared in  various  European  capitals,  and  in 
North  and  South  America.  He  has  sung  in 
Milan,  Paris,  London,  Monte  Carlo,  and  Buenos 
Aires.  During  a  visit  to  Milan  he  married,  and 
at  the  time  of  his  New  York  engagement  his  fam- 
ily included  five  children.  The  number  may  have 
increased. 

Chaliapine's  repertoire  is  extensive  but,  on  the 
whole,  it  is  a  strange  repertoire  to  western  Europe 
and  America,  consisting,  as  it  does,  almost  en- 
tirely of  Russian  operas.  In  Milan,  New  York, 
and  Monte  Carlo,  where  he  has  appeared  with 
Italian  and  French  companies,  his  most  famous 
role  is  Mefistofele.  Leporello  he  sang  for  the  first 
time  in  New  York.  Basilio  and  Mephistopheles 
in  Faust  he  has  probably  enacted  as  often  in  Rus- 
sia as  elsewhere.  He  "  created  "  the  title  part  of 
Massenet's  Don  Quichotte  at  Monte  Carlo  (Vanni 
Marcoux  sang  the  role  later  in  Paris).  With  the 
Russian  Opera  Company,  organized  in  connection 
with  the  Russian  Ballet  by  Serge  de  Diaghilew, 
Chaliapine  has  sung  in  London,  Paris,  and  other 
[104] 


Feodor    Chaliapine     . 

European  capitals  in  Moussorgsky's  Boris  Godu- 
nozv  and  Khovanchina,  Rimsky-Korsakow's  Ivan 
the  Terrible  (originally  called  The  Maid  of 
Pskov},  and  Borodine's  Prince  Igor,  in  which  he 
appeared  both  as  Prince  Galitzky  and  as  the  Tar- 
tar Chieftain.  His  repertoire  further  includes 
Rubinstein's  Demon,  Rimsky-Korsakow's  Mozart 
and  Salieri  (the  role  of  Salieri),  Glinka's  A  Life 
for  the  Czar,  Dargomij  sky's  The  Roussalka, 
Rachmaninow's  Aleko,  and  Gretchaninow's  Dobry- 
nia  Nikitich.  This  list  is  by  no  means  complete. 

I  first  saw  Chaliapine  on  the  stage  in  New  York, 
where  his  original  ideas  and  tremendously  vital 
personality  ran  counter  to  every  tradition  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House.  The  professional 
writers  about  the  opera,  as  a  whole,  would  have 
none  of  him.  Even  his  magnificently  pictorial 
Mefistofele  was  condemned,  and  I  think  Pitts  San- 
born  was  the  only  man  in  a  critic's  chair  —  I  was 
a  reporter  at  this  period  and  had  no  opportunity 
for  expressing  my  opinions  in  print  —  who  ap- 
preciated his  Basilio  at  its  true  value,  and  II 
Barbiere  is  Sanborn's  favourite  opera.  His  ac- 
count of  the  proceedings  makes  good  reading  at 
this  date.  I  quote  from  the  "  New  York  Globe," 
December  13,  1907: 

"  The  performance  that  was  in  open  defiance  of 
[105] 


Interpreters 

traditions,  that  was  glaringly  and  recklessly  un- 
orthodox, that  set  at  naught  the  accepted  canons 
of  good  taste,  but  which  justified  itself  by  its 
overwhelming  and  all-conquering  good  humour, 
was  the  Basilio  of  Mr.  Chaliapine.  With  his 
great  natural  stature  increased  by  art  to  Brob- 
dingnagian  proportions,  a  face  that  had  gazed 
on  the  vodka  at  its  blackest,  and  a  cassock  that 
may  be  seen  but  not  described,  he  presented  a 
figure  that  might  have  been  imagined  by  the  Eng- 
lish Swift  or  the  French  Rabelais.  It  was  no 
voice  or  singing  that  made  the  audience  re-demand 
the  *  Calumny  Song.'  It  was  the  compelling 
drollery  of  those  comedy  hands.  You  may  be 
assured,  persuaded,  convinced  that  you  want  your 
Rossini  straight  or  not  at  all.  But  when  you  see 
the  Chaliapine  Basilio  you'll  do  as  the  rest  do  — 
roar.  It  is  as  sensational  in  its  way  as  the 
Chaliapine  Mephisto." 

It  was  hard  to  reconcile  Chaliapine's  concep- 
tion of  Mephistopheles  with  the  Gounod  music, 
and  I  do  not  think  the  Russian  himself  had  any 
illusions  about  his  performance  of  Leporello.  It 
was  not  his  type  of  part,  and  he  was  as  good  in  it, 
probably,  as  Olive  Fremstad  would  be  as  Nedda. 
Even  great  artists  have  their  limitations,  perhaps 
more  of  them  than  the  lesser  people.  But  his 
[106] 


Feodor     Chaliapine 

Mefistofele,  to  my  way  of  thinking, —  and  the 
anxious  reader  who  has  not  seen  this  impersona- 
tion may  be  assured  that  I  am  far  from  being 
alone  in  it, —  was  and  is  a  masterpiece  of  stage- 
craft. However,  opinions  differ.  Under  the  al- 
luring title,  "Devils  Polite  and  Rude,"  W.  J. 
Henderson,  in  the  "  New  York  Sun,"  Sunday, 
November  24,  1907,  after  Chaliapine's  first  ap- 
pearance here  in  Boito's  opera,  took  his  fling  at 
the  Russian  bass  (was  it  Mr.  Henderson  or  an- 
other who  later  referred  to  Chaliapine  as  "  a  cos- 
sack  with  a  cold"?):  "He  makes  of  the  fiend 
a  demoniac  personage,  a  seething  cauldron  of 
rabid  passions.  He  is  continually  snarling  and 
barking.  He  poses  in  writhing  attitudes  of  agon- 
ized impotence.  He  strides  and  gestures,  grim- 
aces and  roars.  All  this  appears  to  superficial 
observers  to  be  tremendously  dramatic.  And  it 
is,  as  noted,  not  without  its  significance.  Per- 
haps it  may  be  only  a  personal  fancy,  yet  the 
present  writer  much  prefers  a  devil  who  is  a  gen- 
tleman. .  .  .  But  one  thing  more  remains  to  be 
said  about  the  first  display  of  Mr.  Chaliapine's 
powers.  How  long  did  he  study  the  art  of  sing- 
ing? Surely  not  many  years.  Such  an  uneven 
and  uncertain  emission  of  tone  is  seldom  heard 
even  on  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  stage, 
[107] 


I nterpreters 

where  there  is  a  wondrous  quantity  of  poorly 
grounded  singing.  The  splendid  song,  Son  lo 
Spirito  Che  Nega,  was  not  sung  at  all  in  the 
strict  interpretation  of  the  word.  It  was  de- 
livered, to  be  sure,  but  in  a  rough  and  barbaric 
style.  Some  of  the  tones  disappeared  somewhere 
in  the  rear  spaces  of  the  basso's  capacious  throat, 
while  others  were  projected  into  the  auditorium 
like  stones  from  a  catapult.  There  was  much 
strenuosity  and  little  art  in  the  performance. 
And  it  was  much  the  same  with  the  rest  of  the 
singing  of  the  role." 

Chaliapine  calls  himself  "  the  enemy  of  tradi- 
tion." When  he  was  singing  at  the  Opera  in 
Petrograd  in  1896  he  found  that  every  detail  of 
every  characterization  was  prescribed.  He  was 
directed  to  make  his  entrances  in  a  certain  way; 
he  was  ordered  to  stand  in  a  certain  place  on  the 
stage.  Whenever  he  attempted  an  innovation  the 
stage  director  said,  "  Don't  do  that."  Young 
singer  though  he  was,  he  rebelled  and  asked, 
"  Why  not?  "  And  the  reply  always  came,  "  You 
must  follow  the  tradition  of  the  part.  Monsieur 
Chose  and  Signor  Cosi  have  always  done  thus  and 
so,  and  you  must  do  likewise."  "  But  I  feel  dif- 
ferently about  the  role,"  protested  the  bass.  How- 
ever, it  was  not  until  he  went  to  Moscow  that  he 
[108] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

was  permitted  to  break  with  tradition.  From  that 
time  on  he  began  to  elaborate  his  characterizations, 
assisted,  he  admits,  by  Russian  painters  who  gave 
him  his  first  ideas  about  costumes  and  make-up. 
He  once  told  me  that  his  interpretation  of  a  part 
was  never  twice  the  same.  He  does  not  study  his 
roles  in  solitude,  poring  over  a  score,  as  many 
artists  do.  Rather,  ideas  come  to  him  when  he 
eats  or  drinks,  or  even  when  he  is  on  the  stage. 
He  depends  to  an  unsafe  degree  —  unsafe  for 
other  singers  who  may  be  misled  by  his  success  — 
on  inspiration  to  carry  him  through,  once  he  begins 
to  sing.  "  When  I  sing  a  character  I  am  that 
character;  I  am  no  longer  Chaliapine.  So  what- 
ever I  do  must  be  in  keeping  with  what  the  char- 
acter would  do."  This  is  true  to  so  great  an  ex- 
tent that  you  may  take  it  for  granted,  when  you 
see  Chaliapine  in  a  new  role,  that  he  will  envelop 
the  character  with  atmosphere  from  his  first  en- 
trance, perhaps  even  without  the  aid  of  a  single 
gesture.  His  entrance  on  horseback  in  Ivan  the 
Terrible  is  a  case  in  point.  Before  he  has  sung 
a  note  he  has  projected  the  personality  of  the  cruel 
czar  into  the  auditorium. 

"  As  an  actor,"  writes  Mrs.  Newmarch  in  "  The 
Russian  Opera,"  "  his  greatest  quality  appears  to 
me  to  be  his  extraordinary  gift  of  identification 
[109] 


Interpreters 

with  the  character  he  is  representing.  Shaliapin 
(so  does  Mrs.  Newmarch  phonetically  transpose 
his  name  into  Roman  letters)  does  not  merely 
throw  himself  into  the  part,  to  use  a  phrase  com- 
monly applied  to  the  histrionic  art.  He  seems  to 
disappear,  to  empty  himself  of  all  personality,  that 
Boris  Godounov  or  Ivan  the  Terrible  may  be  re- 
incarnated for  us.  While  working  out  his  own 
conception  of  a  part,  unmoved  by  convention  or 
opinion,  Shaliapin  neglects  no  accessory  study  that 
can  heighten  the  realism  of  his  interpretation.  It 
is  impossible  to  see  him  as  Ivan  the  Terrible,  or 
Boris,  without  realizing  that  he  is  steeped  in  the 
history  of  those  periods,  which  live  again  at  his 
will.  In  the  same  way  he  has  studied  the  master- 
pieces of  Russian  art  to  good  purpose,  as  all  must 
agree  who  have  compared  the  scene  of  Ivan's  fren- 
zied grief  over  the  corpse  of  Olga,  in  the  last  scene 
of  Rimsky-Korsakow's  opera,  with  Repin's  terrible 
picture  of  the  Tsar,  clasping  in  his  arms  the  body 
of  the  son  whom  he  has  just  killed  in  a  fit  of  insane 
anger.  The  agonizing  remorse  and  piteous  senile 
grief  have  been  transformed  from  Repin's  canvas 
to  Shaliapin's  living  picture,  without  the  revolting 
suggestion  of  the  shambles  which  mars  the  paint- 
er's work.  Sometimes,  too,  Shaliapin  will  take  a 
hint  from  the  living  model.  His  dignified  make-up 
[110] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

as  the  Old  Believer  Dositheus,  in  Moussorgsky's 
Khovanstchina,  owes  not  a  little  to  the  personality 
of  Vladimir  Stassov." 

Chaliapine,  it  seems  to  me,  has  realized  more 
completely  than  any  other  contemporary  singer  the 
opportunities  afforded  for  the  presentation  of 
character  on  the  lyric  stage.  In  costume, 
make-up,  gesture,  the  simulation  of  emotion,  he  is 
a  consummate  and  painstaking  artist.  As  I  have 
suggested,  he  has  limitations.  Who,  indeed,  has 
not?  Grandeur,  nobility,  impressiveness,  and,  by 
inversion,  sordidness,  bestiality,  and  awkward  ugli- 
ness fall  easily  within  his  ken.  The  murder- 
haunted  Boris  Godunow  is  perhaps  his  most  over- 
powering creation.  From  first  to  last  it  is  a 
masterpiece  of  scenic  art ;  those  who  have  seen  him 
in  this  part  will  not  be  satisfied  with  substitutes. 
His  Ivan  is  almost  equally  great.  His  Dositheus, 
head  of  the  Old  Believers  in  KhovancTiina,  is  a  sin- 
cere and  effective  characterization  along  entirely 
different  lines.  Although  this  character,  in  a 
sense,  dominates  Moussorgsky's  great  opera,  there 
is  little  opportunity  for  the  display  of  histrionism 
which  Boris  presents  to  the  singing  actor.  By  al- 
most insignificant  details  of  make-up  and  gesture 
the  bass  creates  before  your  eyes  a  living,  breath- 
ing man,  a  man  of  fire  and  faith.  No  one  would 
[111] 


I nterp  reters 

recognize  in  this  kind  old  creature,  terrible,  to  be 
sure,  in  his  stern  piety,  the  nude  Mefistofele  sur- 
veying the  pranks  of  the  motley  rabble  in  the 
Brocken  scene  of  Boito's  opera,  a  flamboyant  ex- 
posure of  personality  to  be  compared  with  Mary 
Garden's  Thais,  Act  I. 

As  the  Tartar  chieftain  in  Prince  Igor,  he  has 
but  few  lines  to  sing,  but  his  gestures  during  the 
performance  of  the  ballet,  which  he  has  arranged 
for  his  guest,  in  fact  his  actions  throughout  the 
single  act  in  which  this  character  appears,  are 
stamped  on  the  memory  as  definitely  as  a  figure 
in  a  Persian  miniature.  And  the  noble  scorn 
with  which,  as  Prince  Galitzky,  he  bows  to  the  stir- 
rup of  Prince  Igor  at  the  close  of  the  prologue 
to  this  opera,  still  remains  a  fixed  picture  in  my 
mind.  There  is  also  the  pathetic  Don  Quichotte 
of  Massenet's  poorest  opera.  All  great  portraits 
these,  to  which  I  must  add  the  funny,  dirty,  expec- 
torating Spanish  priest  of  II  Barbiere. 

Chaliapine  is  the  possessor  of  a  noble  voice 
which  sometimes  he  uses  by  main  strength.  He  has 
never  learned  to  sing,  in  the  conventional  meaning 
of  the  phrase.  He  must  have  been  singing  for 
some  time  before  he  studied  at  all,  and  at  Tiflis 
he  does  not  seem  to  have  spent  many  months  on 
his  voice.  In  the  circumstances  it  is  an  extremely 
[112] 


Feodor    Chaliapine 

tractable  organ,  at  least  always  capable  of  doing 
his  bidding,  dramatically  speaking.  Indeed,  there 
are  many  who  consider  him  a  great  artist  in  his 
manipulation  of  it.  Mrs.  Newmarch  quotes  Her- 
bert Heyner  on  this  point: 

"  His  diction  floats  on  a  beautiful  cantilena, 
particularly  in  his  mezzo-voce  singing,  which  — 
though  one  would  hardly  expect  it  from  a  singer 
endowed  with  such  a  noble  bass  voice  —  is  one  of 
the  most  telling  features  of  his  performance. 
There  is  never  any  striving  after  vocal  effects,  and 
his  voice  is  always  subservient  to  the  words.  .  .  . 
The  atmosphere  and  tone-colour  which  Shalia- 
pin  imparts  to  his  singing  are  of  such  remarkable 
quality  that  one  feels  his  interpretation  of  Schu- 
bert's Doppelgdnger  must  of  necessity  be  a 
thing  of  genius,  unapproachable  by  other  contem- 
porary singers.  .  .  .  his  method  is  based  upon  a 
thoroughly  sound  breath  control,  which  produces 
such  splendid  cantabile  results.  Every  student 
should  listen  to  this  great  singer,  and  profit  by  his 
art." 

My  intention  in  placing  before  the  eyes  of  my 
readers  such  contradictory  accounts  as  may  be 
found  in  this  article  has  not  been  altogether  in- 
genuous. The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  opinions 
differ  on  every  matter  of  art,  and  on  no  point  are 
[113] 


Interpreters 

they  so  various  as  on  that  which  refers  to  inter- 
pretation. It  may  further  be  urged  that  the  per- 
sonality of  Chaliapine  is  so  marked  and  his  method 
so  direct  that  the  variations  of  opinion  are  nat- 
urally expressed  in  somewhat  violent  language. 

For  those,  accustomed  to  the  occidental  operatic 
repertoire,  who  find  it  hard  to  understand  how  a 
bass  could  acquire  such  prominence,  it  may  be  ex- 
plained that  deep  voices  are  both  common  and 
very  popular  in  Russia.  They  may  be  heard  in 
any  Greek  church,  sustaining  organ  points  a  full 
octave  below  the  notes  to  which  our  basses  descend 
with  trepidation.  As  a  consequence,  many  of  the 
Russian  operas  contain  bass  roles  of  the  first  im- 
portance. In  both  of  Moussorgsky's  familiar 
operas,  for  example,  the  leading  part  is  destined 
for  a  bass  voice. 

July  18,  1916. 


[114] 


Marietta     Mazarin 


Marietta  Mazarin 


SOMETIMES  the  cause  of  an  intense  impres- 
sion in  the  theatre  apparently  disappears, 
leaving  "  not  a  rack  behind,"  beyond  the 
trenchant  memory  of  a  few  precious  moments,  in- 
clining one  to  the  belief  that  the  whole  adventure 
has  been  a  dream,  a  particularly  vivid  dream,  and 
that  the  characters  therein  have  returned  to  such 
places  in  space  as  are  assigned  to  dream  person- 
ages by  the  makers  of  men.  This  reflection  comes 
to  me  as,  sitting  before  my  typewriter,  I  attempt 
to  recapture  the  spirit  of  the  performances  of 
Richard  Strauss's  music  drama  Elektra  at  Oscar 
Hammerstein's  Manhattan  Opera  House  in  New 
York.  The  work  remains,  if  not  in  the  repertoire 
of  any  opera  house  in  my  vicinity,  at  least  deeply 
imbedded  in  my  eardrum  and,  if  need  be,  at  any 
time  I  can  pore  again  over  the  score,  which  is 
always  near  at  hand.  But  of  the  whereabouts  of 
Mariette  Mazarin,  the  remarkable  artist  who  con- 
tributed her  genius  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
crazed  Greek  princess,  I  know  nothing.  As  she 
came  to  us  unheralded,  so  she  went  away,  after  we 
who  had  seen  her  had  enshrined  her,  tardily  to  be 
sure,  in  that  small,  slow-growing  circle  of  those 
who  have  achieved  eminence  on  the  lyric  stage. 
[117] 


Interpreters 

Before  the  beginning  of  the  opera  season  of 
1909-10,  Mariette  Mazarin  was  not  even  a  name 
in  New  York.  Even  during  a  good  part  of  that 
season  she  was  recognized  only  as  an  able  routine 
singer.  She  made  her  debut  here  in  Aida  and  she 
sang  Carmen  and  Louise  without  creating  a  fu- 
rore, almost,  indeed,  without  arousing  attention  of 
any  kind,  good  or  bad  criticism.  Had  there  been 
no  production  of  EleJctra  she  would  have  passed 
into  that  long  list  of  forgotten  singers  who  appear 
here  in  leading  roles  for  a  few  months  or  a  few 
years  and  who,  when  their  time  is  up,  vanish,  never 
to  be  regretted,  extolled,  or  recalled  in  the  memory 
again.  For  the  disclosure  of  Mme.  Mazarin's 
true  powers  an  unusual  vehicle  was  required. 
Elektra  gave  her  her  opportunity,  and  proved  her 
one  of  the  exceptional  artists  of  the  stage. 

I  do  not  know  many  of  the  facts  of  Mariette 
Mazarin's  career.  She  studied  at  the  Paris  Con- 
servatoire; Leloir,  of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise,  was 
her  professor  of  acting.  She  made  her  debut  at 
the  Paris  Opera  as  Aida;  later  she  sang  Louise 
and  Carmen  at  the  Opera-Comique.  After  that 
she  seems  to  have  been  a  leading  figure  at  the 
Theatre  de  la  Monnaie  in  Brussels,  where  she  ap- 
peared in  Alceste,  Armide,  Iphigenie  en  Tauride 
and  Iphigenie  en  AuLide,  even  Orphee,  the  great 
[118] 


Mariette    Mazarin 

Gluck  repertoire.  She  has  also  sung  Salome,  the 
three  Brtinnhildes,  Elsa  in  Lohengrin,  Elizabeth 
in  Tanriliauser,  in  Berlioz's  Prise  de  Troie,  La 
Damnation  de  Faust,  Les  Huguenots,  Griselidis, 
Thais,  II  Trovatore,  Tosca,  Manon  Lescaut,  Cav- 
alleria  Rusticana,  Herodiade,  Le  Cid,  and  Sal- 
ammbo.  She  has  been  heard  at  Nice,  and  prob- 
ably on  many  another  provincial  French  stage. 
At  one  time  she  was  the  wife  of  Leon  Rothier, 
the  French  bass,  who  has  been  a  member  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  Company  for  several  seasons. 
Away  from  the  theatre  I  remember  her  as  a  tall 
woman,  rather  awkward,  but  quick  in  gesture. 
Her  hair  was  dark,  and  her  eyes  were  dark  and 
piercing.  Her  face  was  all  angles ;  her  features 
were  sharp,  and  when  conversing  with  her  one 
could  not  but  be  struck  with  a  certain  eerie  qual- 
ity which  seemed  to  give  mystic  colour  to  her  ex- 
pression. She  was  badly  dressed,  both  from  an 
aesthetic  and  a  fashionable  point  of  view.  In  a 
group  of  women  you  would  pick  her  out  to  be  a 
doctor,  a  lawyer,  an  intellectuelle.  When  I  talked 
with  her,  impression  followed  impression  —  always 
I  felt  her  intelligence,  the  play  of  her  intellect  upon 
the  surfaces  of  her  art,  but  always,  too,  I  felt 
how  narrow  a  chance  had  cast  her  lot  upon  the 
stage,  how  she  easily  might  have  been  something 
[119] 


I nterpreters 

else  than  a  singing  actress,  how  magnificently  ac- 
cidental her  career  was ! 

She  was,  it  would  seem,  an  unusually  gifted  mu- 
sician —  at  least  for  a  singer, —  with  a  physique 
and  a  nervous  energy  which  enabled  her  to  per- 
form miracles.  For  instance,  on  one  occasion  she 
astonished  even  Oscar  Hammerstein  by  replacing 
Lina  Cavalieri  as  Salome  in  Herodiade,  a  role  she 
had  not  previously  sung  for  five  years,  at  an  hour's 
notice  on  the  evening  of  an  afternoon  on  which 
she  had  appeared  as  Elektra.  On  another  occa- 
sion, when  Mary  Garden  was  ill  she  sang  Louise 
with  only  a  short  forewarning.  She  told  me  that 
she  had  learned  the  music  of  Elektra  between 
January  1,  1910,  and  the  night  of  the  first  per- 
formance, January  31.  She  also  told  me  that 
without  any  special  effort  on  her  part  she  had  as- 
similated the  music  of  the  other  two  important 
feminine  roles  in  the  opera,  Chrysothemis  and  Kly- 
tsemnestra,  and  was  quite  prepared  to  sing  them. 
Mme.  Mazarin's  vocal  organ,  it  must  be  admitted, 
was  not  of  a  very  pleasant  quality  at  all  times,  al- 
though she  employed  it  with  variety  and  usually 
with  taste.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  subtle 
charm  in  her  middle  voice,  but  her  upper  voice  was 
shrill  and  sometimes,  when  emitted  forcefully,  be- 
came in  effect  a  shriek.  Faulty  intonation  often 
[120] 


Marietta    Mazarin 

played  havoc  with  her  musical  interpretation,  but 
do  we  not  read  that  the  great  Mme.  Pasta  seldom 
sang  an  opera  through  without  many  similar  slips 
from  the  pitch?  Aida,  of  course,  displayed  the 
worst  side  of  her  talents.  Her  Carmen,  it  seemed 
to  me,  was  in  some  ways  a  very  remarkable  per- 
formance ;  she  appeared,  in  this  role,  to  be  pos- 
sessed by  a  certain  diablerie,  a  power  of  evil, 
which  distinguished  her  from  other  Carmens,  but 
this  characterization  created  little  comment  or  in- 
terest in  New  York.  In  Louise,  especially  in  the 
third  act,  she  betrayed  an  enmity  for  the  pitch, 
but  in  the  last  act  she  was  magnificent  as  an  ac- 
tress. In  Santuzza  she  exploited  her  capacity  for 
unreined  intensity  of  expression.  I  have  never 
seen  her  as  Salome  (in  Richard  Strauss's  opera ; 
her  Massenetic  Salome  was  disclosed  to  us  in 
New  York),  but  I  have  a  photograph  of  her 
in  the  role  which  might  serve  as  an  illustration 
for  the  "  Mephistophela  "  of  Catulle  Mendes.  I 
can  imagine  no  more  sinister  and  depraved  an  ex- 
pression, combined  with  such  potent  sexual  at- 
traction. It  is  a  remarkable  photograph,  evok- 
ing as  it  does  a  succession  of  lustful  ladies,  and  it 
is  quite  unpublishable.  If  she  carried  these  quali- 
ties into  her  performance  of  the  work,  and  there 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  she  did,  the  even- 
[121] 


I nterp  reters 

ings  on  which  she  sang  Salome  must  have  been 
very  terrible  for  her  auditors,  hours  in  which  the 
Aristotle  theory  of  Katharsis  must  have  been  am- 
ply proven. 

Elektra  was  well  advertised  in  New  York. 
Oscar  Hammerstein  is  as  able  a  showman  as  the 
late  P.  T.  Barnum,  and  he  has  devoted  his  talents 
to  higher  aims.  Without  his  co-operation,  I  think 
it  is  likely  that  America  would  now  be  a  trifle 
above  Australia  in  its  operatic  experience.  It  is 
from  Oscar  Hammerstein  that  New  York  learned 
that  all  the  great  singers  of  the  world  were  not 
singing  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  a  mat- 
ter which  had  been  considered  axiomatic  before 
the  redoubtable  Oscar  introduced  us  to  Alessandro 
Bonci,  Maurice  Renaud,  Charles  Dalmores,  Mary 
Garden,  Luisa  Tetrazzini,  and  others.  With  his 
productions  of  Petteas  et  Melisande,  Louise, 
Thais,  and  other  works  new  to  us,  he  spurred  the 
rival  house  to  an  activity  which  has  been  main- 
tained ever  since  to  a  greater  or  less  degree.  New 
operas  are  now  the  order  of  the  day  —  even  with 
the  Chicago  and  the  Boston  companies  —  rather 
than  the  exception.  And  without  this  impre- 
sario's courage  and  determination  I  do  not  think 
New  York  would  have  heard  Elektra,  at  least  not 
before  its  uncorked  essence  had  quite  disappeared. 
[122] 


Marietta    Mazarin 

Lover  of  opera  that  he  indubitably  is,  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  is  by  nature  a  showman,  and  he  under- 
stands the  psychology  of  the  mob.  Looking 
about  for  a  sensation  to  stir  the  slow  pulse  of  the 
New  York  opera-goer,  he  saw  nothing  on  the  hori- 
zon more  likely  to  effect  his  purpose  than  Elektra. 
Salome,  spurned  by  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Com- 
pany, had  been  taken  to  his  heart  the  year  before 
and,  with  Mary  Garden's  valuable  assistance,  he 
had  found  the  biblical  jade  extremely  efficacious 
in  drawing  shekels  to  his  doors.  He  hoped  to 
accomplish  similar  results  with  Elektra.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  penalties  an  inventor  of  harmonies 
pays  is  that  his  inventions  become  shopworn.  A 
certain  terrible  atmosphere,  a  suggestion  of  vague 
dread,  of  horror,  of  rank  incest,  of  vile  murder,  of 
sordid  shame,  was  conveyed  in  Elektra  by  Richard 
Strauss  through  the  adroit  use  of  what  we  call 
discords,  for  want  of  a  better  name.  Discord  at 
one  time  was  defined  as  a  combination  of  sounds 
that  would  eternally  affront  the  musical  ear.  We 
know  better  now.  Discord  is  simply  the  word  to 
describe  a  never-before  or  seldom-used  chord. 
Such  a  juxtaposition  of  notes  naturally  startles 
when  it  is  first  heard,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  pre- 
sume that  the  effect  is  unpleasant,  even  in  the  be- 
ginning. 

[123] 


Interpreters 

Now  it  was  by  the  use  of  sounds  cunningly  con- 
trived to  displease  the  ear  that  Strauss  built  up 
his  atmosphere  of  ugliness  in  Elektra.  When  it 
was  first  performed,  the  scenes  in  which  the  half- 
mad  Greek  girl  stalked  the  palace  courtyard,  and 
the  queen  with  the  blood-stained  hands  related  her 
dreams,  literally  reeked  with  musical  f rightfulness. 
I  have  never  seen  or  heard  another  music  drama 
which  so  completely  bowled  over  its  first  audiences, 
whether  they  were  street-car  conductors  or  mu- 
sical pedants.  These  scenes  even  inspired  a  fa- 
mous passage  in  "  Jean-Christophe  "  (I  quote  from 
the  translation  of  Gilbert  Cannon)  :  "  Agamem- 
non was  neurasthenic  and  Achilles  impotent ;  they 
lamented  their  condition  at  length  and,  naturally, 
their  outcries  produced  no  change.  The  energy 
of  the  drama  was  concentrated  in  the  role  of  Iphi- 
genia  —  a  nervous,  hysterical,  and  pedantic  Iphi- 
genia,  who  lectured  the  hero,  declaimed  furiously, 
laid  bare  for  the  audience  her  Nietzschian  pessim- 
ism and,  glutted  with  death,  cut  her  throat, 
shrieking  with  laughter." 

But  will  Elektra  have  the  same  effect  on  future 
audiences?  I  do  not  think  so.  Its  terror  has,  in 
a  measure,  been  dissipated.  Schoenberg,  Straw- 
insky,  and  Ornstein  have  employed  its  discords  — 
and  many  newer  ones  —  for  pleasanter  purposes, 
[M4] 


Mariette    Mazarin 

and  our  ears  are  becoming  accustomed  to  these 
assaults  on  the  casual  harmony  of  our  forefathers. 
Elektra  will  retain  its  place  as  a  forerunner,  and 
inevitably  it  will  eventually  be  considered  the  most 
important  of  Strauss's  operatic  works,  but  it  can 
never  be  listened  to  again  in  that  same  spirit  of 
horror  and  repentance,  with  that  feeling  of  utter 
repugnance,  which  it  found  easy  to  awaken  in 
1910.  Perhaps  all  of  us  were  a  little  better  for 
the  experience. 

An  attendant  at  the  opening  ceremonies  in  New 
York  can  scarcely  forget  them.  Cast  under  the 
spell  by  the  early  entrance  of  Elektra,  wild-eyed 
and  menacing,  across  the  terrace  of  the  courtyard 
of  Agamemnon's  palace,  he  must  have  remained 
with  staring  eyes  and  wide-flung  ears,  straining 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  to  catch  the  mes- 
sage of  this  tale  of  triumphant  and  utterly  holy 
revenge.  The  key  of  von  Hofmannsthal's  fine  play 
was  lost  to  some  reviewers,  as  it  was  to  Romain 
Holland  in  the  passage  quoted  above,  who  only 
saw  in  the  drama  a  perversion  of  the  Greek  idea  of 
Nemesis.  That  there  was  something  very  much 
finer  in  the  theme,  it  was  left  for  Bernard  Shaw 
to  discover.  To  him  Elektra  expressed  the  re- 
generation of  a  race,  the  destruction  of  vice,  ig- 
norance, and  poverty.  The  play  was  replete  in 
[125  ] 


Interpreters 

his  mind  with  sociological  and  political  implica- 
tions, and,  as  his  views  in  the  matter  exactly  coin- 
cide with  my  own,  I  cannot  do  better  than  to  quote 
a  few  lines  from  them,  including,  as  they  do,  his 
interesting  prophecies  regarding  the  possibility 
of  war  between  England  and  Germany,  unfortun- 
ately unfulfilled.  Strauss  could  not  quite  prevent 
the  war  with  his  EleTctra.  Here  is  the  passage: 

"  What  Hofmannsthal  and  Strauss  have  done  is 
to  take  Klytaemnestra  and  ^Egisthus,  and  by  iden- 
tifying them  with  everything  evil  and  cruel,  with 
all  that  needs  must  hate  the  highest  when  it  sees 
it,  with  hideous  domination  and  coercion  of  the 
higher  by  the  baser,  with  the  murderous  rage  in 
which  the  lust  for  a  lifetime  of  orgiastic  pleasure 
turns  on  its  slaves  in  the  torture  of  its  disap- 
pointment, and  the  sleepless  horror  and  misery  of 
its  neurasthenia,  to  so  rouse  in  us  an  overwhelm- 
ing flood  of  wrath  against  it  and  a  ruthless  resolu- 
tion to  destroy  it  that  Elektra's  vengeance  be- 
comes holy  to  us,  and  we  come  to  understand  how 
even  the  gentlest  of  us  could  wield  the  ax  of  Or- 
estes or  twist  our  firm  fingers  in  the  black  hair  of 
Klytaemnestra  to  drag  back  her  head  and  leave  her 
throat  open  to  the  stroke. 

"  This  was  a  task  hardly  possible  to  an  ancient 
Greek,  and  not  easy  even  for  us,  who  are  face  to 
[126] 


Mariette    Mazarin 

face  with  the  America  of  the  Thaw  case  and  the 
European  plutocracy  of  which  that  case  was  only 
a  trifling  symptom,  and  that  is  the  task  that  Hof- 
mannsthal  and  Strauss  have  achieved.  Not  even 
in  the  third  scene  of  Das  Rheingold  or  in  the 
Klingsor  scene  in  Parsifal  is  there  such  an  atmos- 
phere of  malignant,  cancerous  evil  as  we  get  here 
and  that  the  power  with  which  it  is  done  is  not 
the  power  of  the  evil  itself,  but  of  the  passion  that 
detests  and  must  and  finally  can  destroy  that  evil 
is  what  makes  the  work  great  and  makes  us  re- 
joice in  its  horror. 

"Whoever  understands  this,  however  vaguely, 
will  understand  Strauss's  music.  I  have  often 
said,  when  asked  to  state  the  case  against  the 
fools  and  the  money  changers  who  are  trying  to 
drive  us  into  a  war  with  Germany,  that  the  case 
consists  of  the  single  word  '  Beethoven.'  To-day 
I  should  say  with  equal  confidence  '  Strauss.'  In 
this  music  drama  Strauss  has  done  for  us  with 
utterly  satisfying  force  what  all  the  noblest  pow- 
ers of  life  within  us  are  clamouring  to  have  said 
in  protest  against  and  defiance  of  the  omnipresent 
villainies  of  our  civilization,  and  this  is  the  highest 
achievement  of  the  highest  art." 

Mme.  Mazarin  was  the  torch-bearer  in  New 
York  of  this  magnificent  creation.  She  is,  indeed, 
[127] 


Interpreters 

the  only  singer  who  has  ever  appeared  in  the  role 
in  America,  and  I  have  never  heard  Elektra  in 
Europe.  However,  those  who  have  seen  other  in- 
terpreters of  the  role  assure  me  that  Mme.  Maz- 
arin  so  far  outdistanced  them  as  to  make  compar- 
ison impossible.  This,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Elektra  in  French  necessarily  lost  something  of  its 
crude  force,  and  through  its  mild-mannered  con- 
ductor at  the  Manhattan  Opera  House,  who 
seemed  afraid  to  make  a  noise,  a  great  deal  more. 
I  did  not  make  any  notes  about  this  performance 
at  the  time,  but  now,  seven  years  later,  it  is  very 
vivid  to  me,  an  unforgettable  impression.  Of 
how  many  nights  in  the  theatre  can  I  say  as  much  ? 
Diabolical  ecstasy  was  the  keynote  of  Mme. 
Mazarin's  interpretation,  gradually  developing 
into  utter  frenzy.  She  afterwards  assured  me 
that  a  visit  to  a  madhouse  had  given  her  the  in- 
spiration for  the  gestures  and  steps  of  Elektra  in 
the  terrible  dance  in  which  she  celebrates  Orestes's 
bloody  but  righteous  deed.  The  plane  of  hysteria 
upon  which  this  singer  carried  her  heroine  by  her 
pure  nervous  force,  indeed  reduced  many  of  us  in 
the  audience  to  a  similar  state.  The  conventional 
operatic  mode  was  abandoned;  even  the  grand 
manner  of  the  theatre  was  flung  aside ;  with  a  wide 
sweep  of  the  imagination,  the  singer  cast  the  mem- 
[128] 


Mariette    Mazarin 

ory  of  all  such  baggage  from  her,  and  proceeded 
along  vividly  direct  lines  to  make  her  impres- 
sion. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  half-mad  princess, 
creeping  dirty  and  ragged,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  cracking  whips,  across  the  terraced  courtyard 
of  the  palace,  was  indeed  not  calculated  to  stir 
tears  in  the  eyes.  The  picture  was  vile  and  re- 
pugnant ;  so  perhaps  was  the  appeal  to  the  sister 
whose  only  wish  was  to  bear  a  child,  but  Mme. 
Mazarin  had  her  design;  her  measurements  were 
well  taken.  In  the  wild  cry  to  Agamemnon,  the 
dignity  and  pathos  of  the  character  were  estab- 
lished, and  these  qualities  were  later  emphasized  in 
the  scene  of  her  meeting  with  Orestes,  beautiful 
pages  in  von  Hofmannsthal's  play  and  Strauss's 
score.  And  in  the  dance  of  the  poor  demented 
creature  at  the-close  the  full  beauty  and  power  and 
meaning  of  the  drama  were  disclosed  in  a  few  incis- 
ive strokes.  Elektra's  mind  had  indeed  given  way 
under  the  strain  of  her  sufferings,  brought  about 
by  her  long  waiting  for  vengeance,  but  it  had 
given  way  under  the  light  of  holy  triumph. 
Such  indeed  were  the  fundamentals  of  this  tre- 
mendously moving  characterization,  a  character- 
ization which  one  must  place,  perforce,  in  that 
great  memory  gallery  where  hang  the  Melisande  of 
[129] 


Interpreters 

Mary  Garden,  the  Isolde  of  Olive  Fremstad,  and 
the  Boris  Godunow  of  Feodor  Chaliapine. 

It  was  not  alone  in  her  acting  that  Mme.  Maz- 
arin  walked  on  the  heights.  I  know  of  no  other 
singer  with  the  force  or  vocal  equipment  for  this 
difficult  role.  At  the  time  this  music  drama  was 
produced  its  intervals  were  considered  in  the  guise 
of  unrelated  notes.  It  was  the  cry  that  the  voice 
parts  were  written  without  reference  to  the  orches- 
tral score,  and  that  these  wandered  up  and  down 
without  regard  for  the  limitations  of  a  singer. 
Since  Elektra  was  first  performed  we  have  trav- 
elled far,  and  now  that  we  have  heard  The  Night- 
ingale of  Strawinsky,  for  instance,  perusal  of 
Strauss's  score  shows  us  a  perfectly  ordered  and 
understandable  series  of  notes.  Even  now,  how- 
ever, there  are  few  of  our  singers  who  could  cope 
with  the  music  of  Elektra  without  devoting  a  good 
many  months  to  its  study,  and  more  time  to  the 
physical  exercise  needful  to  equip  one  with  the 
force  necessary  to  carry  through  the  undertaking. 
Mme.  Mazarin  never  faltered.  She  sang  the  notes 
with  astonishing  accuracy ;  nay,  more,  with  potent 
vocal  colour.  Never  did  the  orchestral  flood  o'er- 
top  her  flow  of  sound.  With  consummate  skill 
she  realized  the  composer's  intentions  as  com- 
pletely as  she  had  those  of  the  poet. 
[130] 


Marietta    Mazarin 

Those  who  were  present  at  the  first  American 
performance  of  this  work  will  long  bear  the  occa- 
sion in  mind.  The  outburst  of  applause  which 
followed  the  close  of  the  play  was  almost  hysterical 
in  quality,  and  after  a  number  of  recalls  Mme. 
Mazarin  fainted  before  the  curtain.  Many  in  the 
audience  remained  long  enough  to  receive  the  re- 
assuring news  that  she  had  recovered.  As  a  re- 
porter of  musical  doings  on  the  "  New  York 
Times,"  I  sought  information  as  to  her  condition 
at  the  dressing-room  of  the  artist.  Somewhere 
between  the  auditorium  and  the  stage,  in  a  pass- 
ageway, I  encountered  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 
who,  a  short  time  before,  had  appeared  at  the  Gar- 
den Theatre  in  .Arthur  Symons's  translation  of 
von  Hofmannsthal's  drama.  Although  we  had 
never  met  before,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
we  became  engaged  in  conversation,  and  I  volun- 
teered to  escort  her  to  Mme.  Mazarin's  room, 
where  she  attempted  to  express  her  enthusiasm. 
Then  I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  meet  Mr. 
Hammerstein,  and  she  replied  that  it  was  her 
great  desire  at  this  moment  to  meet  the  impresario 
and  to  thank  him  for  the  indelible  impression  this 
evening  in  the  theatre  had  given  her.  I  led  her  to 
the  corner  of  the  stage  where  he  sat,  in  his  high 
hat,  smoking  his  cigar,  and  I  presented  her  to  him. 
[131] 


I nterpreters 

"  But  Mrs.  Campbell  was  introduced  to  me  only 
three  minutes  ago,"  he  said.  She  stammered  her 
acknowledgment  of  the  fact.  "  It's  true,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  been  so  completely  carried  out  of 
myself  that  I  had  forgotten !  " 

August  88, 1916. 


[132] 


Yve  tte     Gu  ilbert 

"  She  sings  of  life,  and  mirth  and  all  that  moves 
Man's  fancy  in  the  carnival  of  loves; 
And  a  chill  shiver  takes  me  as  she  sings 
The  pity  of  unpitied  human  things." 

Arthur  Symons. 


Yvette    Guilbert 


THE  natural  evolution  of  Gordon  Craig's 
theory  of  the  stage  finally  brought  him  to 
the  point  where  he  would  dispense  altogether 
with  the  play  and  the  actor.  The  artist-producer 
would  stand  alone.  Yvette  Guilbert  has  accom- 
plished this  very  feat,  and  accomplished  it  without 
the  aid  of  super-marionettes.  She  still  uses  songs 
as  her  medium,  but  she  has  very  largely  discarded 
the  authors  and  composers  of  these  songs,  re- 
creating them  with  her  own  charm  and  wit  and 
personality  and  brain.  A  song  as  Yvette  Guilbert 
sings  it  exists  only  for  a  brief  moment.  It  does 
not  exist  on  paper,  as  you  will  discover  if  you 
seek  out  the  printed  version,  and  it  certainly  does 
not  exist  in  the  performance  of  any  one  else.  Not 
that  most  of  her  songs  are  not  worthy  material, 
chosen  as  they  are  from  the  store-houses  of  a  na- 
tion's treasures,  but  that  her  interpretations  are 
so  individual,  so  charged  with  deep  personal  feel- 
ing, so  emended,  so  added  to,  so  embellished  with 
grunts,  shrieks,  squeaks,  trills,  spoken  words,  ex- 
tra bars,  or  even  added  lines  to  the  text;  so  per- 
formed that  their  performance  itself  constitutes  a 
veritable  (and,  unfortunately,  an  extremely  per- 
ishable) work  of  art.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  has 
[135] 


I nterpreters 

seemed  to  me  that  the  genius  of  this  remarkable 
Frenchwoman  could  express  itself  directly,  with- 
out depending  upon  songs. 

She  could  have  given  no  more  complete  demon- 
stration of  the  inimitability  of  this  genius  than  by 
her  recent  determination  to  lecture  on  the  art  of 
interpreting  songs.  Never  has  Yvette  been  more 
fascinating,  never  more  authoritative  than  during 
those  three  afternoons  at  Maxine  Elliott's  Thea- 
tre, devoted  ostensibly  to  the  dissection  of  her 
method,  but  before  she  had  unpacked  a  single  in- 
strument it  must  have  been  perfectly  obvious  to 
every  auditor  in  the  hall  that  she  was  taking  great 
pains  to  explain  just  how  impossible  it  would  be 
for  any  one  to  follow  in  her  footsteps,  for  any  one 
to  imitate  her  astonishing  career.  With  evident 
candour  and  a  multiplicity  of  detail  she  told  the 
story  of  how  she  had  built  up  her  art.  She  told 
how  she  studied  the  words  of  her  songs,  how  she 
planned  them,  what  a  large  part  the  plasticity 
of  her  body  played  in  their  interpretation,  and 
when  she  was  done  all  she  had  said  only  went  to 
prove  that  there  is  but  one  Yvette  Guilbert. 

She  stripped  all  pretence  from  her  vocal  method, 

explained  how  she  sang  now  in  her  throat,  now 

falsetto.     "  When  I  wish  to  make  a  certain  sound 

for  a  certain  effect  I  practise  by  myself  until  I 

[136] 


Yvette    Guilbert 


succeed  in  making  it.  That  is  my  vocal  method. 
I  never  had  a  teacher.  I  would  not  trust  my  voice 
to  a  teacher !  "  Her  method  of  learning  to  breathe 
was  a  practical  one.  She  took  the  refrain  of  a  lit- 
tle French  song  to  work  upon.  She  made  herself 
learn  to  sing  the  separate  phrases  of  this  song 
without  breathing;  then  two  phrases  together,  etc., 
until  she  could  sing  the  refrain  straight  through 
without  taking  a  breath.  Ratan  Devi  has  told  me 
that  Indian  singers,  who  never  study  vocalization 
in  the  sense  that  we  do,  are  adepts  in  the  art  of 
breathing.  "They  breathe  naturally  and  with  no 
difficulty  because  it  never  occurs  to  them  to  distort 
a  phrase  by  interrupting  it  for  breath.  They 
have  respect  for  the  phrase  and  sing  it  through. 
When  you  study  with  an  occidental  music  teacher 
you  will  find  that  he  will  mark  little  Vs  on  the 
page  indicating  where  the  pupil  may  take  breath 
until  he  can  capture  the  length  of  the  phrase. 
This  method  would  be  incomprehensible  to  a  Hin- 
doostanee  or  to  any  oriental."  The  wonderful 
breath  control  of  Hebrew  cantors  who  sing  long 
and  florid  phrases  without  interruption  is  another 
case  of  the  same  kind. 

Mme.  Guilbert  finds  her  effects  everywhere,  in 
nature,  in  art,  in  literature.     When  she  was  com- 
posing  her    interpretation    of   La   SouLarde    she 
[137] 


I nterpreters 

searched  in  vain  for  the  cry  of  the  thoughtless 
children  as  they  stone  the  poor  drunken  hag,  until 
she  discovered  it,  quite  by  accident  one  evening  at 
the  Comedie  Franfaise,  in  the  shriek  of  Mounet- 
Sully  in  Oedipe-Roi.  In  studying  the  Voyage  a 
Bethleem,  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  of  her 
repertoire,  she  felt  the  need  of  breaking  the  monot- 
ony of  the  stanzas.  It  was  her  own  idea  to  inter- 
polate the  watchman's  cry  of  the  hours,  and  to  add 
the  jubilant  coda,  II  est  ne,  le  divin  enfant,  ex- 
tracted from  another  song  of  the  same  period. 
With  Guilbert  nothing  is  left  to  chance.  Do  you 
remember  one  of  her  most  celebrated  chansons, 
Notre  Petite  Compagne  of  Jules  Laforgue,  which 
she  sings  so  strikingly  to  a  Waldteufel  waltz, 

Je  suis  la  femme, 
On  me  connait. 

Her  interpretation  belies  the  lines.  She  has  con- 
trived to  put  all  the  mystery  of  the  sphynx  into 
her  rendering  of  them.  How  has  she  done  this? 
By  means  of  the  cigarette  which  she  smokes 
throughout  the  song.  She  has  confessed  as  much. 
Always  on  the  lookout  for  material  which  will  as- 
sist her  in  perfecting  her  art  she  has  observed 
that  when  a  woman  smokes  a  cigarette  her  expres- 
sion becomes  inscrutable.  Her  effects  are  cumu- 
[138] 


Yvette    Guilbert 


lative,  built  up  out  of  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  de- 
tail. In  those  songs  in  which  she  professes  to  do 
the  least  she  is  really  doing  the  most.  Have  you 
heard  her  sing  Le  Lien  Serre  and  witnessed  the 
impression  she  produces  by  sewing,  a  piece  of  ac- 
tion not  indicated  in  the  text  of  the  song?  Have 
you  heard  her  sing  L'Hotel  Numero  3,  one  of  the 
repertoire  of  the  gants  noirs  and  the  old  days  of 
the  Divan  Japonais?  In  this  song  she  does  not 
move  her  body ;  she  scarcely  makes  a  gesture,  and 
yet  her  crisp  manner  of  utterance,  her  subtle  em- 
phasis, her  angular  pose,  are  all  that  are  needed  to 
expose  the  humour  of  the  ditty.  Much  the  same 
comment  could  be  made  in  regard  to  her  interpre- 
tation of  Le  Jeune  Homme  Triste.  The  apache 
songs,  on  the  contrary,  are  replete  with  gesture. 
Do  you  remember  the  splendid  apache  saluting  his 
head  before  he  goes  to  the  guillotine?  Again 
Yvette  has  given  away  her  secret:  "Naturally  I 
have  deep  feelings.  To  be  an  artist  one  must  feel 
intensely,  but  I  find  that  it  is  sometimes  well  to  give 
these  feelings  a  spur.  In  this  instance  I  have  sewn 
weights  into  the  lining  of  the  cap  of  the  apache. 
When  I  drop  the  cap  it  falls  with  a  thud  and  I  am 
reminded  instinctively  of  the  fall  of  the  knife  of 
the  guillotine.  This  trick  always  furnishes  me 
with  the  thrill  I  need  and  I  can  never  sing  the 
[139] 


I nterp  reters 

last  lines  without  tears  in  my  eyes  and  voice." 
It  seems  ungracious  to  speak  of  Yvette  Guilbert 
as  a  great  artist.  She  is  so  much  less  than  that 
and  so  much  more.  She  has  dedicated  her  auto- 
biography to  God  and  it  is  certain  that  she  be- 
lieves her  genius  to  be  a  holy  thing.  No  one  else 
on  the  stage  to-day  has  worked  so  faithfully,  or 
so  long,  no  one  else  has  so  completely  fulfilled  her 
obligations  to  her  art,  and  certainly  no  one  else  is 
so  nearly  human.  She  compasses  the  chasm  be- 
tween the  artist  and  the  public  with  ease.  She  is 
even  able  to  do  this  in  America,  speaking  a  for- 
eign tongue,  for  it  has  only  been  recently  that  she 
has  learned  to  speak  English  freely  and  she  rarely 
sings  in  our  language.  Her  versatility,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  limitless ;  she  expresses  the  whole  world 
in  terms  of  her  own  personality.  She  never  lacks 
for  a  method  of  expression  for  the  effect  she  de- 
sires to  give,  and  she  gives  all,  heart  and  brains 
alike.  Now  she  is  raucous,  now  tender ;  have  you 
ever  seen  so  sweet  a  smile ;  have  you  ever  observed 
so  coarse  a  mien?  She  can  run  the  gamut  from 
a  sleek  priest  to  a  child  (as  in  C'est  le  3/a«),  from 
a  jealous  husband  to  a  guilty  wife  (Le  Jaloux  et 
la  Menteuse),  from  an  apache  (Ma  Tete)  to  a 
charming  old  lady  (Lisette). 

It  is  easy  to  liken  the  art  of  this  marvellous 
[140] 


Yvette    Guilbert 


woman  to  something  concrete,  to  the  drawings  of 
Toulouse-Lautrec  or  Steinlein,  the  posters  of 
Cheret  .  .  .  and  there  is  indeed  a  suggestion  of 
these  men  in  the  work  of  Yvette  Guilbert.  The 
same  broad  lines  are  there,  the  same  ample  style, 
the  same  complete  effect,  but  there  is  more.  In 
certain  phases  of  her  talent,  the  gamine,  the 
apache,  the  gavroche,  she  reflects  the  spirit  of  the 
inspiration  which  kindled  these  painters  into  crea- 
tion, but  in  other  phases,  of  which  Lisette,  Les 
ClocJies  de  Nantes,  La  Passion,  or  Le  Cycle  du 
Vin  are  the  expression,  you  may  more  readily  com- 
pare her  style  with  that  of  Watteau,  Eugene  Car- 
riere,  Felicien  Rops,  or  Boucher.  .  .  .  She  takes 
us  by  the  hand  through  the  centuries,  offering  us 
the  results  of  a  vast  amount  of  study,  a  vast 
amount  of  erudition,  and  a  vast  amount  of  work. 
In  so  many  fine  strokes  she  evokes  an  epoch.  She 
has  studied  the  distinction  between  a  curtsey  which 
proceeds  the  recital  of  a  fable  of  La  Fontaine  and 
a  poem  of  Francis  Jammes.  She  has  closely  scru- 
tinized pictures  in  neglected  corridors  of  the 
Louvre  to  learn  the  manner  in  which  a  cavalier 
lifts  his  hat  in  various  periods.  There  are  those 
who  complain  that  she  emphasizes  the  dramatic 
side  of  the  old  French  songs,  which  possibly  sur- 
vive more  clearly  under  more  naive  treatment. 
[141] 


Interp  reters 

Her  justification  in  this  instance  is  the  complete 
success  of  her  method.  The  songs  serve  her  pur- 
pose, even  supposing  she  does  not  serve  theirs. 
But  a  more  valid  cause  for  grievance  can  be  urged 
against  her.  Unfortunately  and  ill-advisedly  she 
has  occasionally  carried  something  of  the  scientific 
into  an  otherwise  delightful  matinee,  importing  a 
lecturer,  like  Jean  Beck  of  Bryn  Mawr,  to  analyze 
and  describe  the  music  of  the  middle  ages,  or  even 
becoming  pedantic  and  professorial  herself ;  some- 
times Yvette  preaches  or,  still  worse,  permits  some 
one  else,  dancer,  violinist,  or  singer  to  usurp  her 
place  on  the  platform.  These  interruptions  are 
sorry  moments  indeed  but  such  lapses  are  forgiven 
with  an  almost  divine  graciousness  when  Yvette  in- 
terprets another  song.  Then  the  dull  or  scholarly 
interpolations  are  forgotten. 

I  cannot,  indeed,  know  where  to  begin  to  praise 
her  or  where  to  stop.  My  feelings  for  her  per- 
formances (which  I  have  seen  and  heard  whenever 
I  have  been  able  during  the  past  twelve  years  in 
Chicago,  New  York,  London,  and  Paris)  are  un- 
equivocal. There  are  moments  when  I  am  certain 
that  her  rendering  of  La  Passion  is  her  supreme 
achievement  and  there  are  moments  when  I  prefer 
to  see  her  as  the  unrestrained  purveyor  of  the 
art  of  the  chansonniers  of  Montmartre  —  unre- 
[142] 


Yvette    Guilbert 


strained,  I  say,  and  yet  it  is  evident  to  me  that 
she  has  refined  her  interpretations  of  these  songs, 
revived  twenty-five  years  after  she  first  sang  them, 
bestowed  on  them  a  spirit  which  originally  she 
could  not  give  them.  From  the  beginning  Ma 
Tete,  La  Soularde,  La  Glu,  La  Pier  reuse,  and  the 
others  were  drawn  as  graphically  as  the  pictures 
of  Steinlein,  but  age  has  softened  her  interpreta- 
tion of  them.  What  formerly  was  striking  has 
now  become  beautiful,  what  was  always  astonish- 
ing has  become  a  masterpiece  of  artistic  expres- 
sion. Once,  indeed,  these  pictures  were  sharply 
etched,  but  latterly  they  have  been  lithographed, 
drawn  softly  on  stone.  ...  I  have  said  that  I  do 
not  know  in  what  song,  in  what  mood,  I  prefer 
Yvette  Guilbert.  I  can  never  be  certain  but  if  I 
were  asked  to  choose  a  programme  I  think  I  should 
include  in  it  C'est  le  Mai,  La  Legende  de  St.  Nico- 
las, Le  Roi  a  Fait  Bat t re  Tambour,  Les  Cloches 
de  Nantes,  Le  Cycle  du  Vin,  Le  Lien  Serre,  La 
Glu,  Lisette,  La  Femme,  Que  V Amour  Cause  de 
Peine,  and  Oh,  how  many  others ! 

All  art  must  be  beautiful,  says  Mme.  Guilbert, 
and  she  has  realized  the  meaning  of  what  might 
have  been  merely  a  phrase ;  no  matter  how  sordid 
or  trivial  her  subject  she  has  contrived  to  make  of 
it  something  beautiful.  She  is  not,  therefore,  a 
[143] 


I nterpreters 

realist  in  any  literal  signification  of  the  word  (al- 
though I  doubt  if  any  actress  on  the  stage  can 
evoke  more  sense  of  character  than  she)  because 
she  always  smiles  and  laughs  and  weeps  with  the 
women  she  represents ;  she  sympathizes  with  them, 
she  humanizes  them,  where  another  interpreter 
would  coldly  present  them  for  an  audience  to  take 
or  to  leave,  exposing  them  to  cruel  inspection. 
Even  in  her  interpretation  of  heartless  women  it  is 
always  to  our  sense  of  humour  that  she  appeals, 
while  in  her  rendering  of  Ma  Tete  and  La  Pier- 
reuse  she  strikes  directly  at  our  hearts.  Zola  once 
told  Mme.  Guilbert  that  the  apaches  were  the  log- 
ical descendants  of  the  old  chevaliers  of  France. 
"  They  are  the  only  men  we  have  now  who  will 
fight  over  a  woman ! "  he  said.  When  you  hear 
Mme.  Guilbert  call  "  Pi-ouit!  "  you  will  readily 
perceive  that  she  understands  what  Zola  meant. 

Wonderful  Yvette,  who  has  embodied  so  many 
pleasant  images  in  the  theatre,  who  has  expressed 
to  the  world  so  much  of  the  soul  of  France,  so 
much  of  the  soul  of  art  itself,  but,  above  all,  so 
much  of  the  soul  of  humanity.  It  is  not  alone 
General  Booth  who  has  made  friends  of  "  drabs 
from  the  alley-ways  and  drug  fiends  pale  —  Minds 
still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail!  Vermin- 
eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath,  unwashed  legions 
[144] 


Yvette    Guilbert 


with  the  ways  of  death  " :  these  are  all  friends  of 
Yvette  Guilbert  too.  And  when  Balzac  wrote  the 
concluding  paragraph  of  "  Massimila  Don!  "  he 
may  have  foreseen  the  later  application  of  the 
lines.  .  .  .  Surely  *'  the  peris,  nymphs,  fairies, 
sylphs  of  the  olden  time,  the  muses  of  Greece,  the 
marble  Virgins  of  the  Certosa  of  Pavia,  the  Day 
and  Night  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  little  angels  that 
Bellini  first  drew  at  the  foot  of  church  paintings, 
and  to  whom  Raphael  gave  such  divine  form  at  the 
foot  of  the  Vierge  au  donataire,  and  of  the  Ma- 
donna freezing  at  Dresden ;  Orcagna's  captivating 
maidens  in  the  Church  of  Or  San  Michele  at  Flor- 
ence, the  heavenly  choirs  on  the  tombs  of  St.  Se- 
bald  at  Nuremberg,  several  Virgins  in  the  Duomo 
at  Milan,  the  hordes  of  a  hundred  Gothic  cathe- 
drals, the  whole  nation  of  figures  who  break  their 
forms  to  come  to  you,  O  all-embracing  artists  — " 
surely,  surely,  all  these  hover  over  Yvette  Guil- 
bert. 

April  16,  1917. 


[145] 


Wasl  av    N  i  j  ins  ky 

"  A   thing  of  beauty   is  a  boy  forever." 

Allen  Norton. 


Waslav  Nijinsky 


SERGE  DE  DIAGHILEW  brought  the  dregs 
of  the  Russian  Ballet  to  New  York  and, 
after  a  first  greedy  gulp,  inspired  by  curi- 
osity to  get  a  taste  of  this  highly  advertised  bev- 
erage, the  public  drank  none  too  greedily.  The 
scenery  and  the  costumes,  designed  by  Bakst, 
Roerich,  Benois,  and  Larionow,  and  the  music  of 
Rimsky-Korsakow,  Tcherepnine,  Schumann,  Boro- 
dine,  Balakirew,  and  Strawinsky  —  especially 
Strawinsky  —  arrived.  It  was  to  be  deplored, 
however,  that  Bakst  had  seen  fit  to  replace  the 
original  decor  of  Scheherazade  by  a  new  setting 
in  rawer  colours,  in  which  the  flaming  orange 
fairly  burned  into  the  ultramarine  and  green 
(readers  of  "  A  Rebours  "  will  remember  that  des 
Esseintes  designed  a  room  something  like  this). 
A  few  of  the  dancers  came,  but  of  the  best  not  a 
single  one.  Nor  was  Fokine,  the  dancer-producer, 
who  devised  the  choregraphy  for  The  Firebird, 
Cleopdtre,  and  Petrouchka,  among  the  number,  al- 
though his  presence  had  been  announced  and  ex- 
pected. To  those  enthusiasts,  and  they  included 
practically  every  one  who  had  seen  the  Ballet  in  its 
greater  glory,  who  had  prepared  their  friends  for 
an  overwhemingly  brilliant  spectacle,  over-using 
[149] 


I nterpreters 

the  phrase,  "  a  perfect  union  of  the  arts,"  the  early 
performances  in  January,  1916,  at  the  Century 
Theatre  were  a  great  disappointment.  Often 
had  we  urged  that  the  individual  played  but  a  small 
part  in  this  new  and  gorgeous  entertainment,  but 
now  we  were  forced  to  admit  that  the  ultimate 
glamour  was  lacking  in  the  ensemble,  which  was 
obviously  no  longer  the  glad,  gay  entity  it  once 
had  been. 

The  picture  was  still  there,  the  music  (not  al- 
ways too  well  played)  but  the  interpretation  was 
mediocre.  The  agile  Miassine  could  scarcely  be 
called  either  a  great  dancer  or  a  great  mime.  He 
had  been  chosen  by  Diaghilew  for  the  role  of 
Joseph  in  Richard  Strauss's  version  of  the  Po- 
tiphar  legend  but,  during  the  course  of  a  London 
season  carried  through  without  the  co-operation 
of  Nijinsky,  this  was  the  only  part  allotted  to 
him.  In  New  York  he  interpreted,  not  without 
humour  and  with  some  technical  skill,  the  inciden- 
tal divertissement  from  Rimsky-Korsakow's  opera, 
The  Snow-Maiden,  against  a  vivid  background  by 
Larionow.  The  uninspired  choregraphy  of  this 
ballet  was  also  ascribed  to  Miassine  by  the  pro- 
gramme, although  probably  in  no  comminatory 
spirit.  In  the  small  role  of  Eusebius  in  Carnecal 
[150] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


and  in  the  negligible  part  of  the  Prince  in  The 
Firebird  he  was  entirely  satisfactory,  but  it  was 
impertinent  of  the  direction  to  assume  that  he 
would  prove  an  adequate  substitute  for  Nijinsky 
in  roles  to  which  that  dancer  had  formerly  applied 
his  extremely  finished  art. 

Adolf  Bolm  contributed  his  portraits  of  the 
Moor  in  Petrouchka,  of  Pierrot  in  Carneval,  and 
of  the  Chief  Warrior  in  the  dances  from  Prince 
Igor.  These  three  roles  completely  express  the 
possibilities  of  Bolm  as  a  dancer  or  an  actor,  and 
sharply  define  his  limitations.  His  other  parts, 
Dakon  in  Daphnis  et  Chloe  —  Sadko,  the  Prince  in 
Thamar,  Amoun  in  Cleopdtre,  the  Slave  in  Sche- 
herazade, and  Pierrot  in  Papillons,  are  only  varia- 
tions on  the  three  afore-mentioned  themes.  His 
friends  often  confuse  his  vitality  and  abundant 
energy  with  a  sense  of  characterization  and  a  skill 
as  a  dancer  which  he  does  not  possess.  For  the 
most  part  he  is  content  to  express  himself  by 
stamping  his  heels  and  gnashing  his  teeth,  and 
when,  as  in  Cleopdtre,  he  attempts  to  convey  a 
more  subtle  meaning  to  his  general  gesture,  he  is 
not  very  successful.  Bolm  is  an  interesting  and 
useful  member  of  the  organization,  but  he  could  not 
make  or  unmake  a  season  ;  nor  could  Gavrilow,  who 
[151] 


I nterp  reters 

is  really  a  fine  dancer  in  his  limited  way,  although 
he  is  unfortunately  lacking  in  magnetism  and  any 
power  of  characterization. 

But  it  was  on  the  distaff  side  of  the  cast  that 
the  Ballet  seemed  pitifully  undistinguished,  even 
to  those  who  did  not  remember  the  early  Paris  sea- 
sons when  the  roster  included  the  names  of  Anna 
Pavlowa,  Tamara  Karsavina,  Caterina  Gheltzer, 
and  Ida  Rubinstein.  The  leading  feminine  dancer 
of  the  troupe  when  it  gave  its  first  exhibitions  in 
New  York  was  Xenia  Maclezova,  who  had  not,  so 
far  as  my  memory  serves,  danced  in  any  London 
or  Paris  season  of  the  Ballet  (except  for  one  gala 
performance  at  the  Paris  Opera  which  preceded  the 
American  tour),  unless  in  some  very  menial  ca- 
pacity. This  dancer,  like  so  many  others,  had 
the  technic  of  her  art  at  her  toes'  ends.  Sarah 
Bernhardt  once  told  a  reporter  that  the  acquire- 
ment of  technic  never  did  any  harm  to  an  artist, 
and  if  one  were  not  an  artist  it  was  not  a  bad  thing 
to  have.  I  have  forgotten  how  many  times  Mile. 
Maclezova  could  pirouette  without  touching  the 
toe  in  the  air  to  the  floor,  but  it  was  some  pro- 
digious number.  She  was  past  mistress  of  the 
entrechat  and  other  mysteries  of  the  ballet  acad- 
emy. Here,  however,  her  knowledge  of  her  art 
seemed  to  end,  in  the  subjugation  of  its  very  mech- 
[152] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


anism.  She  was  very  nearly  lacking  in  those  quali- 
ties of  grace,  poetry,  and  imagination  with  which 
great  artists  are  freely  endowed,  and  although 
she  could  not  actually  have  been  a  woman  of  more 
than  average  weight,  she  often  conveyed  to  the 
spectator  an  impression  of  heaviness.  In  such  a 
work  as  The  Firebird  she  really  offended  the  eye. 
Far  from  interpreting  the  ballet,  she  gave  you  an 
idea  of  how  it  should  not  be  done. 

Her  season  with  the  Russians  was  terminated  in 
very  short  order,  and  Lydia  Lopoukova,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  America,  and  who,  indeed,  had  al- 
ready been  engaged  for  certain  roles,  was  rushed 
into  her  vacant  slippers.  Now  Mme.  Lopoukova 
had  charm  as  a  dancer,  whatever  her  deficiencies 
in  technic.  In  certain  parts,  notably  as  Colom- 
bine  in  Carneval,  she  assumed  a  roguish  demeanor 
which  was  very  fetching.  As  La  Ballerine  in  Pe- 
trouchka,  too,  she  met  all  the  requirements  of  the 
action.  But  in  Le  Spectre  de  la  Rose,  Les  Sylph- 
ides,  The  Firebird,  and  La  Princesse  Enchantee, 
she  floundered  hopelessly  out  of  her  element. 

Tchernicheva,  one  of  the  lesser  but  more  stead- 
fast luminaries  of  the  Ballet,  in  the  roles  for  which 
she  was  cast,  the  principal  Nymph  in  UApres-midi 
d'un  Faune,  Echo  in  Narcisse,  and  the  Princess  in 
The  Firebird,  more  than  fulfilled  her  obligations  to 
[153] 


Interpreters 

the  ensemble,  but  her  opportunities  in  these  mimic 
plays  were  not  of  sufficient  importance  to  enable 
her  to  carry  the  brunt  of  the  performances  on  her 
lovely  shoulders.  Flore  Revalles  was  drafted,  I 
understand,  from  a  French  opera  company.  I 
have  been  told  that  she  sings  —  Tosca  is  one  of  her 
roles  —  as  well  as  she  dances.  That  may  very 
well  be.  To  impressionable  spectators  she  seemed 
a  real  femme  fatale.  Her  Cleopatre  suggested  to 
me  a  Parisian  cocotte  much  more  than  an  Egyp- 
tian queen.  It  would  be  blasphemy  to  compare 
her  with  Ida  Rubinstein  in  this  role  —  Ida  Rubin- 
stein, who  was  true  Aubrey  Beardsley !  In  Thamar 
and  Zobeide,  both  to  a  great  extent  dancing  roles, 
Mile.  Revalles,  both  as  dancer  and  actress,  was  but 
a  frail  substitute  for  Karsavina. 

The  remainder  of  the  company  was  adequate, 
but  not  large,  and  the  ensemble  was  by  no  means 
as  brilliant  as  those  who  had  seen  the  Ballet  in 
London  or  Paris  might  have  expected.  Nor  in 
the  absence  of  Fokine,  that  master  of  detail,  were 
performances  sufficiently  rehearsed.  There  was, 
of  course,  explanation  in  plenty  for  this  disinte- 
gration. Gradually,  indeed,  the  Ballet  as  it  had 
existed  in  Europe  had  suffered  a  change.  Only  a 
miracle  and  a  fortune  combined  would  have  suf- 
ficed to  hold  the  original  company  intact.  It  was 
[154] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


not  held  intact,  and  the  war  made  further  inroads 
on  its  integrity.  Then,  for  the  trip  to  America 
many  of  the  dancers  probably  were  inclined  to  de- 
mand double  pay.  Undoubtedly,  Serge  de  Diag- 
hilew  had  many  more  troubles  than  those  which 
were  celebrated  in  the  public  prints,  and  it  must 
be  admitted  that,  even  with  his  weaker  company, 
he  gave  us  finer  exhibitions  of  stage  art  than  had 
previously  been  even  the  exception  here. 

In  the  circumstances,  however,  certain  pieces, 
which  were  originally  produced  when  the  com- 
pany was  in  the  flush  of  its  first  glory,  should  never 
have  been  presented  here  at  all.  It  was  not  the 
part  of  reason,  for  example,  to  pitchfork  on  the 
Century  stage  an  indifferent  performance  of  Le 
Pavilion  d'Armide,  in  which  Nijinsky  once  dis- 
ported himself  as  the  favourite  slave,  and  which,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  requires  a  company  of  virtuosi 
to  make  it  a  passable  diversion.  Cleopdtre,  in  its 
original  form  with  Nijinsky,  Fokine,  Pavlowa, 
Ida  Rubinstein,  and  others,  hit  all  who  saw  it 
square  between  the  eyes.  The  absurdly  expur- 
gated edition,  with  its  inadequate  cast,  offered  to 
New  York,  was  but  the  palest  shadow  of  the  sen- 
suous entertainment  that  had  aroused  all  Paris, 
from  the  Batignolles  to  the  Bastille.  The  music, 
the  setting,  the  costumes  —  what  else  was  left  to 
[155] 


I nterpreter s 

celebrate?  The  altered  choregraphy,  the  deplor- 
able interpretation,  drew  tears  of  rage  from  at 
least  one  pair  of  eyes.  It  was  quite  incompre- 
hensible also  why  The  Firebird,  which  depends  on 
the  grace  and  poetical  imagination  of  the  filmiest 
and  most  fairy-like  actress-dancer,  should  have 
found  a  place  in  the  repertoire.  It  is  the  dancing 
equivalent  of  a  coloratura  soprano  role  in  opera. 
Thankful,  however,  for  the  great  joy  of  having  re- 
heard Strawinsky's  wonderful  score,  I  am  willing 
to  overlook  this  tactical  error. 

All  things  considered,  it  is  small  wonder  that  a 
large  slice  of  the  paying  population  of  New  York 
tired  of  the  Ballet  in  short  order.  One  reason 
for  this  cessation  of  interest  was  the  constant  rep- 
etition of  ballets.  In  London  and  Paris  the  sea- 
sons as  a  rule  have  been  shorter,  and  on  certain 
evenings  of  the  week  opera  has  taken  the  place  of 
the  dance.  It  has  been  rare  indeed  that  a  single 
work  has  been  repeated  more  than  three  or  four 
times  during  an  engagement.  I  have  not  found  it 
stupid  to  listen  to  and  look  at  perhaps  fifteen  per- 
formances of  varying  degrees  of  merit  of  Pet- 
rouchka,  Scheherazade,  Carneval,  and  the  dances 
from  Prince  Igor;  I  would  rather  see  the  Russian 
Ballet  repeatedly,  even  as  it  existed  in  America, 
than  four  thousand  five  hundred  and  six  Broad- 
[156] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


way  plays  or  seventy-three  operas  at  the  Metro- 
politan once,  but  I  dare  say  I  may  look  upon  my- 
self as  an  exception. 

At  any  rate,  when  the  company  entered  upon  a 
four  weeks'  engagement  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  included  in  the  regular  subscription  sea- 
son of  opera,  the  subscribers  groaned ;  many  of 
them  groaned  aloud,  and  wrote  letters  to  the  man- 
agement and  to  the  newspapers.  To  be  sure,  dur- 
ing the  tour  which  had  followed  the  engagement 
at  the  Century  the  repertoire  had  been  increased, 
but  the  company  remained  the  same  —  until  the 
coming  of  Waslav  Nijinsky. 

When  America  was  first  notified  of  the  impend- 
ing visit  of  the  Russian  Ballet  it  was  also  promised 
that  Waslav  Nijinsky  and  Tamara  Karsavina 
would  head  the  organization.  It  was  no  fault  of 
the  American  direction  or  of  Serge  de  Diaghilew 
that  they  did  not  do  so.  Various  excuses  were 
advanced  for  the  failure  of  Karsavina  to  forsake 
her  family  in  Russia  and  to  undertake  the  journey 
to  the  United  States  but,  whatever  the  cause,  there 
seems  to  remain  no  doubt  that  she  refused  to  come. 
As  for  Nijinsky,  he,  with  his  wife,  had  been  a 
prisoner  in  an  Austrian  detention  camp  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  Wheels  were  set  grinding 
but  wheels  grind  slowly  in  an  epoch  of  interna- 
[157] 


Interpreters 

tional  bloodshed,  and  it  was  not  until  March,  1916, 
that  the  Austrian  ambassador  at  Washington  was 
able  to  announce  that  Nijinsky  had  been  set 
free. 

I  do  not  believe  the  coming  to  this  country  of 
any  other  celebrated  person  had  been  more  widely 
advertised,  although  P.  T.  Barnum  may  have  gone 
further  in  describing  the  charitable  and  vocal 
qualities  of  Jenny  Lind.  Nijinsky  had  been  ex- 
travagantly praised,  not  only  by  the  official  press 
representatives  but  also  by  eminent  critics  and  pri- 
vate persons,  in  adjectives  which  seemed  to  pre- 
clude any  possibility  of  his  living  up  to  them.  I 
myself  had  been  among  the  paean  singers.  I  had 
thrust  "  half-man,  half-god "  into  print.  "  A 
flame!"  cried  some  one.  Another,  "A  jet  of 
water  from  a  fountain !  "  Such  men  in  the  street 
as  had  taken  the  trouble  to  consider  the  subject  at 
all  very  likely  expected  the  arrival  of  some  stupen- 
dous and  immortal  monstrosity,  a  gravity-defying 
being  with  sixteen  feet  (at  least),  who  bounded  like 
a  rubber  ball,  never  touching  the  solid  stage  except 
at  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  evening's  perform- 
ance. 

Nijinsky  arrived  in  April.  Almost  immediately 
he  gave  vent  to  one  of  those  expressions  of  temper- 
ament often  associated  with  interpretative  genius, 
[158] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 

the  kind  of  thing  I  have  described  at  some  length 
in  "  Music  and  Bad  Manners."  He  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  the  Ballet  as  he  found  it.  Inter- 
viewed, he  expressed  his  displeasure  in  the  news- 
papers. The  managers  of  the  organization  wisely 
remained  silent,  and  a  controversy  was  avoided, 
but  the  public  had  received  a  suggestion  of  petu- 
lancy  which  could  not  contribute  to  the  popularity 
of  the  new  dancer. 

Nijinsky  danced  for  the  first  time  in  New  York 
on  the  afternoon  of  April  12,  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  The  pieces  in  which  he  appeared 
on  that  day  were  Le  Spectre  de  la  Rose  and  Pet- 
rouchka.  Some  of  us  feared  that  eighteen  months 
in  a  detention  camp  would  have  stamped  their 
mark  on  the  dancer.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his  con- 
nection with  the  Russian  Ballet  had  been  severed 
in  1913,  a  year  before  the  war  began.  I  can  say 
for  myself  that  I  was  probably  a  good  deal  more 
nervous  than  Nijinsky  on  the  occasion  of  his  first 
appearance  in  America.  It  would  have  been  a 
cruel  disappointment  to  me  to  have  discovered 
that  his  art  had  perished  during  the  intervening 
three  years  since  I  had  last  seen  him.  My  fears 
were  soon  dissipated.  A  few  seconds  after  he  as 
the  Rose  Ghost  had  bounded  through  the  window, 
it  was  evident  that  he  was  in  possession  of  all  his 
[159] 


Interpreters 

powers ;  nay,  more,  that  he  had  added  to  the  re- 
finement and  polish  of  his  style.  I  had  called  Ni- 
jinsky's  dancing  perfection  in  years  gone  by,  be- 
cause it  so  far  surpassed  that  of  his  nearest  rival ; 
now  he  had  surpassed  himself.  True  artists,  in- 
deed, have  a  habit  of  accomplishing  this  feat.  I 
may  call  to  your  attention  the  careers  of  Olive 
Fremstad,  Yvette  Guilbert,  and  Marie  Tempest. 
Later  I  learned  that  this  first  impression  might 
be  relied  on.  Nijinsky,  in  sooth,  has  now  no  rivals 
upon  the  stage.  One  can  only  compare  him  with 
himself ! 

The  Weber-Gautier  dance-poem,  from  the  very 
beginning  until  the  end,  when  he  leaps  out  of  the 
window  of  the  girl's  chamber  into  the  night,  affords 
this  great  actor-dancer  one  of  his  most  grateful 
opportunities.  It  is  in  this  very  part,  perhaps, 
which  requires  almost  unceasing  exertion  for 
nearly  twelve  minutes,  that  Nijinsky's  powers  of 
co-ordination,  mental,  imaginative,  muscular,  are 
best  displayed.  His  dancing  is  accomplished  in 
that  flowing  line,  without  a  break  between  poses 
and  gestures,  which  is  the  despair  of  all  novices  and 
almost  all  other  virtuosi.  After  a  particularly 
difficult  leap  or  toss  of  the  legs  or  arms,  it  is  a 
marvel  to  observe  how,  without  an  instant's  pause 
to  regain  his  poise,  he  rhythmically  glides  into  the 
[160] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


succeeding  gesture.  His  dancing  has  the  un- 
broken quality  of  music,  the  balance  of  great  paint- 
ing, the  meaning  of  fine  literature,  and  the  emotion 
inherent  in  all  these  arts.  There  is  something  of 
transmutation  in  his  performances ;  he  becomes 
an  alembic,  transforming  movement  into  a  finely 
wrought  and  beautiful  work  of  art.  The  danc- 
ing of  Nijinsky  is  first  an  imaginative  triumph, 
and  the  spectator,  perhaps,  should  not  be  inter- 
ested in  further  dissection  of  it,  but  a  more  inti- 
mate observer  must  realize  that  behind  this  the 
effect  produced  depends  on  his  supreme  command 
of  his  muscles.  It  is  not  alone  the  final  informing 
and  magnetized  imaginative  quality  that  most 
other  dancers  lack;  it  is  also  just  this  muscular 
co-ordination.  Observe  Gavrilow  in  the  piece 
under  discussion,  in  which  he  gives  a  good  imita- 
tion of  Nijinsky's  general  style,  and  you  will  see 
that  he  is  unable  to  maintain  this  rhythmic  con- 
tinuity. 

Nijinsky's  achievements  become  all  the  more 
remarkable  when  one  remembers  that  he  is  work- 
ing with  an  imperfect  physical  medium.  Away 
from  the  scene  he  is  an  insignificant  figure,  short 
and  ineffective  in  appearance.  Aside  from  the 
pert  expression  of  his  eyes,  he  is  like  a  dozen  other 
young  Russians.  Put  him  unintroduced  into  a 
[161] 


I nterp  reters 

drawing-room  with  Jacques  Copeau,  Orchidae, 
Doris  Keane,  Bill  Haywood,  Edna  Kenton,  the 
Baroness  de  Meyer,  Paulet  Thevenaz,  the  Mar- 
chesa  Casati,  Marcel  Duchamp,  Cathleen  Nesbitt, 
H.  G.  Wells,  Anna  Pavlowa,  Rudyard  Chenne- 
viere,  Vladimir  Rebikow,  Henrie  Waste,  and  Isa- 
dora Duncan,  and  he  probably  would  pass  entirely 
unnoticed.  On  the  stage  it  may  be  observed  that 
the  muscles  of  his  legs  are  overdeveloped  and  his 
ankles  are  too  large;  that  is,  if  you  are  in  the 
mood  for  picking  flaws,  which  most  of  us  are  not  in 
the  presence  of  Nijinsky  in  action.  Here,  how- 
ever, stricture  halts  confounded;  his  head  is  set 
on  his  shoulders  in  a  manner  to  give  satisfaction 
to  a  great  sculptor,  and  his  torso,  with  its  slender 
waist  line,  is  quite  beautiful.  On  the  stage,  Nijin- 
sky makes  of  himself  what  he  will.  He  can  look 
tall  or  short,  magnificent  or  ugly,  fascinating  or 
repulsive.  Like  so  many  interpretative  artists, 
he  remoulds  himself  for  his  public  appearances.  It 
is  under  the  electric  light  in  front  of  the  painted 
canvas  that  he  becomes  a  personality,  and  that 
personality  is  governed  only  by  the  scenario  of  the 
ballet  he  is  representing. 

From  the  day  of  Nijinsky's  arrival,  the  ensemble 
of  the  Ballet  improved;  somewhat  of  the  sponta- 
neity of  the  European  performances  was  regained ; 
[162] 


Wasla  v    Nij  insky 


a  good  deal  of  the  glamour  was  recaptured;  the 
loose  lines  were  gathered  taut,  and  the  choregra- 
phy  of  Fokine  (Nij  insky  is  a  director  as  well  as  a 
dancer)  was  restored  to  some  of  its  former  power. 
He  has  appeared  in  nine  roles  in  New  York  during 
the  two  short  seasons  in  which  he  has  been  seen 
with  the  Russian  Ballet  here:  the  Slave  in  Scheher- 
azade, Petrouchka,  the  Rose  Ghost,  the  Faun,  the 
Harlequin  in  Carneval,  Narcisse,  Till  Eulenspiegel, 
and  the  principal  male  roles  of  La  Princesse  En- 
chantee  and  Les  Sylphides.  To  enjoy  the  art  of 
Nij  insky  completely,  to  fully  appreciate  his  genius, 
it  is  necessary  not  only  to  see  him  in  a  variety  of 
parts,  but  also  to  see  him  in  the  same  role  many 
times. 

Study  the  detail  of  his  performance  in  Scheher- 
azade, for  example.  Its  precision  alone  is  note- 
worthy. Indeed,  precision  is  a  quality  we  see  ex- 
posed so  seldom  in  the  theatre  that  when  we  find 
it  we  are  almost  inclined  to  hail  it  as  genius.  The 
role  of  the  Slave  in  this  ballet  is  perhaps  Nijin- 
sky's  scenic  masterpiece  —  exotic  eroticism  ex- 
pressed in  so  high  a  key  that  its  very  existence 
seems  incredible  on  our  puritanic  stage,  and  yet 
with  such  great  art  (the  artist  always  expresses 
himself  with  beauty)  that  the  intention  is  softened 
by  the  execution.  Before  the  arrival  of  this  dan- 
[163] 


I nterp  rete  rs 

cer,  Scheherazade  had  become  a  police  court  scan- 
dal. There  had  been  talk  of  a  "  Jim  Crow  "  per- 
formance in  which  the  blacks  were  to  be  separated 
from  the  whites  in  the  harem,  and  I  am  told  that 
our  provincial  police  magistrates  even  wanted  to 
replace  the  "  mattresses  "  —  so  were  the  divans  of 
the  sultanas  described  in  court  —  by  rocking 
chairs !  But  to  the  considerably  more  vivid  Sche- 
herazade of  Nijinsky  no  exception  was  taken. 
This  strange,  curious,  head-wagging,  simian  crea- 
ture, scarce  human,  wriggled  through  the  play, 
leaving  a  long  streak  of  lust  and  terror  in  his  wake. 
Never  did  Nijinsky  as  the  Negro  Slave  touch  the 
Sultana,  but  his  subtle  and  sensuous  fingers  flut- 
tered close  to  her  flesh,  clinging  once  or  twice 
questioningly  to  a  depending  tassel.  Pierced  by 
the  javelins  of  the  Sultan's  men,  the  Slave's  death 
struggle  might  have  been  revolting  and  gruesome. 
Instead,  Nijinsky  carried  the  eye  rapidly  upward 
with  his  tapering  feet  as  they  balanced  for  the 
briefest  part  of  a  second  straight  high  in  the  air, 
only  to  fall  inert  with  so  brilliantly  quick  a  move- 
ment that  the  aesthetic  effect  grappled  successfully 
with  the  feeling  of  disgust  which  might  have  been 
aroused.  This  was  acting,  this  was  characteriza- 
tion, so  completely  merged  in  rhythm  that  the  re- 
sult became  a  perfect  whole,  and  not  a  combina- 
[164] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


tion  of  several  intentions,  as  so  often  results  from 
the  work  of  an  actor-dancer. 

The  heart-breaking  Petrouchka,  the  roguish 
Harlequin,  the  Chopiniac  of  Les  Sylphides, —  all 
were  offered  to  our  view;  and  Narcisse,  in  which 
Nijinsky  not  only  did  some  very  beautiful  dancing, 
but  posed  (as  the  Greek  youth  admired  himself 
in  the  mirror  of  the  pool)  with  such  utter  and  ar- 
resting grace  that  even  here  he  awakened  a  defi- 
nite thrill.  In  La  Princesse  Enchant  ee  he  merely 
danced,  but  how  he  danced !  Do  you  who  saw  him 
still  remember  those  flickering  fingers  and  toes? 
"  He  winketh  with  his  eyes,  he  speaketh  with  his 
feet,  he  teacheth  with  his  fingers,"  is  written  in  the 
Book  of  Proverbs,  and  the  writer  might  have  had 
in  mind  Nijinsky  in  La  Princesse  Enchant  ee.  All 
these  parts  were  differentiated,  all  completely  real- 
ized, in  the  threefold  intricacy  of  this  baffling  art, 
which  perhaps  is  not  an  art  at  all  until  it  is  so  real- 
ized, when  its  plastic,  rhythmic,  and  histrionic  ele- 
ments become  an  entity. 

After  a  summer  in  Spain  and  Switzerland,  with- 
out Nijinsky,  the  Russian  Ballet  returned  to 
America  for  a  second  season,  opening  at  the  Man- 
hattan  Opera  House  October  16,  1916.  It  is  al- 
ways a  delight  to  hear  and  see  performances  in  this 
theatre,  and  it  was  found  that  the  brilliance  of  the 
[165] 


Interpreters 

Ballet  was  much  enhanced  by  its  new  frame.  The 
season,  however,  opened  with  a  disappointment. 
It  had  been  announced  that  Nijinsky  would  dance 
on  the  first  night  his  choregraphic  version  of  Rich- 
ard Strauss's  tone-poem,  Till  Eulenspiegel.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  that  a  press  agent  has  enacted 
the  role  of  Cassandra.  While  rehearsing  the  new 
work,  Nijinsky  twisted  his  ankle,  and  during  the 
first  week  of  the  engagement  he  did  not  appear  at 
all.  This  was  doubly  unfortunate,  because  the 
company  was  weaker  than  it  had  been  the  previous 
season,  lacking  both  Miassine  and  Tchernicheva. 
The  only  novelty  (for  America)  produced  during 
the  first  week  was  an  arrangement  of  the  divertis- 
sement from  Rimsky-'Korsakow's  opera,  Sadko, 
which  had  already  been  given  a  few  times  in  Paris 
and  London  by  the  Ballet,  never  with  conspicuous 
success.  The  second  week  of  the  season,  Nijinsky 
returned  to  appear  in  three  roles,  the  Faun,  Till 
Eulenspiegel,  and  the  Slave  in  Scheherazade.  Of 
his  performance  to  Debussy's  lovely  music  I  have 
written  elsewhere ;  nor  did  this  new  vision  cause  me 
to  revise  my  opinions. 

Till  Eulenspiegel  is  the  only  new  ballet  the  Rus- 
sians have  produced  in  America.     (Soleil  de  Nuit 
was  prepared  in  Europe,  and  performed  once  at 
the  Paris  Opera  before  it  was  seen  in  New  York. 
[166] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


Besides,  it  was  an  arrangement  of  dances  from  an 
opera  which  is  frequently  given  in  Russia  and 
which  has  been  presented  at  the  Opera-Comique  in 
Paris.)  The  chef  d'orchestre,  Pierre  Monteux, 
refused  to  direct  performances  of  this  work,  on 
the  ground  that  the  composer  was  not  only  a  Ger- 
man, but  a  very  much  alive  and  active  German 
patriot.  On  the  occasions,  therefore,  that  Till 
was  performed  in  New  York,  the  orchestra  strug- 
gled along  under  the  baton  of  Dr.  Anselm  Goetzl. 
In  selecting  this  work  and  in  his  arrangement  of 
the  action  Nijinsky  was  moved,  no  doubt,  by  con- 
sideration for  the  limitations  of  the  company  as 
it  existed, —  from  which  he  was  able  to  secure  the 
effects  he  desired.  The  scenery  and  costumes  by 
Robert  E.  Jones,  of  New  York,  were  decidedly  di- 
verting —  the  best  work  this  talented  young  man 
has  done,  I  think.  Over  a  deep,  spreading  back- 
ground of  ultramarine,  the  crazy  turrets  of  me- 
diaeval castles  leaned  dizzily  to  and  fro.  The  cos- 
tumes were  exaggerations  of  the  exaggerated 
fashions  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Mr.  Jones  added 
feet  of  stature  to  the  already  elongated  peaked 
headdresses  of  the  period.  The  trains  of  the  vel- 
vet robes,  which  might  have  extended  three  yards, 
were  allowed  to  trail  the  full  depth  of  the  Manhat- 
tan Opera  House  stage.  The  colours  were  oranges, 
[167] 


I nterpreters 

reds,  greens,  and  blues,  those  indeed  of  Bakst's 
Scheherazade,  but  so  differently  disposed  that  they 
made  an  entirely  dissimilar  impression.  The  effect 
reminded  one  spectator  of  a  Spanish  omelet. 

In  arranging  the  scenario,  Nijinsky  followed  in 
almost  every  detail  Wilhelm  Klatte's  description 
of  the  meaning  of  the  music,  which  is  printed  in 
programme  books  whenever  the  tone-poem  is  per- 
formed, without  Strauss's  authority,  but  sometimes 
with  his  sanction.  Nijinsky  was  quite  justified  in 
altering  the  end  of  the  work,  which  hangs  the 
rogue-hero,  into  another  practical  joke.  His  ver- 
sion of  this  episode  fits  the  music  and,  in  the  orig- 
inal Till  Eulenspiegel  stories,  Till  is  not  hanged, 
but  dies  in  bed.  The  keynote  of  Nijinsky's  inter- 
pretation was  gaiety.  He  was  as  utterly  picar- 
esque as  the  work  itself ;  he  reincarnated  the  spirit 
of  Gil  Bias ;  indeed,  a  new  quality  crept  into  stage 
expression  through  this  characterization.  Mar- 
garet Wycherly,  one  of  the  most  active  admirers 
of  the  dancer,  told  me  after  the  first  performance 
that  she  felt  that  he  had  for  the  first  time  leaped 
into  the  hearts  of  the  great  American  public,  whose 
appreciation  of  his  subtler  art  as  expressed  in 
Narcisse,  Petrouchka,  and  even  Scheherazade,  had 
been  more  moderate.  There  were  those  who  pro- 
tested that  this  was  not  the  Till  of  the  German 
[168] 


Waslav    Ni  j  insky 


legends,  but  any  actor  who  attempts  to  give  form 
to  a  folk  or  historical  character,  or  even  a  char- 
acter derived  from  fiction,  is  forced  to  run  counter 
to  many  an  observer's  preconceived  ideas. 

"  It  is  an  error  to  believe  that  pantomime  is 
merely  a  way  of  doing  without  words,"  writes  Ar- 
thur Symons,  "  that  it  is  merely  the  equivalent  of 
words.  Pantomime  is  thinking  overheard.  It  be- 
gins and  ends  before  words  have  formed  them- 
selves, in  a  deeper  consciousness  than  that  of 
speech.  And  it  addresses  itself,  by  the  artful  lim- 
itations of  its  craft,  to  universal  human  expe- 
rience, knowing  that  the  moment  it  departs  from 
those  broad  lines  it  will  become  unintelligible.  It 
risks  existence  on  its  own  perfection,  as  the  rope- 
dancer  does,  to  whom  a  false  step  means  a  down- 
fall. And  it  appeals  democratically  to  people  of 
all  nations.  .  .  .  And  pantomime  has  that  mystery 
which  is  one  of  the  requirements  of  true  art.  To 
watch  it  is  like  dreaming.  How  silently,  in 
dreams,  one  gathers  the  unheard  sounds  of  words 
from  the  lips  that  do  but  make  pretence  of  saying 
them !  And  does  not  every  one  know  that  terrify- 
ing impossibility  of  speaking  which  fastens  one  to 
the  ground  for  the  eternity  of  a  second,  in  what 
is  the  new,  perhaps  truer,  computation  of  time  in 
dreams?  Something  like  that  sense  of  suspense 
[169] 


Interpreters 

seems  to  hang  over  the  silent  actors  in  pantomime, 
giving  them  a  nervous  exaltation,  which  has  its 
subtle,  immediate  effect  upon  us,  in  tragic  and 
comic  situation.  The  silence  becomes  an  atmos- 
phere, and  with  a  very  curious  power  of  giving 
distinction  to  form  and  motion.  I  do  not  see  why 
people  should  ever  break  silence  on  the  stage  ex- 
cept to  speak  poetry.  Here,  in  pantomime,  you 
have  a  gracious,  expressive  silence,  beauty  of  ges- 
ture, a  perfectly  discreet  appeal  to  the  emotions, 
a  transposition  of  the  world  into  an  elegant  ac- 
cepted convention." 

Arthur  Symons  wrote  these  words  before  he  had 
seen  the  Russian  Ballet,  before  the  Russian  Ballet, 
as  we  know  it,  existed,  indeed,  before  Nijinsky 
had  begun  to  dance  in  public,  and  he  felt  that  the 
addition  of  poetry  and  music  to  pantomime  —  the 
Wagner  music-drama  in  other  words  —  brought 
about  a  perfect  combination  of  the  arts.  Never- 
theless, there  is  an  obvious  application  of  his  re- 
marks to  the  present  instance.  There  is,  indeed, 
the  quality  of  a  dream  about  the  characters  Ni- 
jinsky presents  to  us.  I  remember  once,  at 
a  performance  of  the  Russian  Ballet,  I  sat  in  a 
box  next  to  a  most  intelligent  man,  a  writer  him- 
self;  I  was  meeting  him  for  the  first  time,  and  he 
was  seeing  the  Ballet  for  the  first  time.  Before  the 
[170] 


Wasla  v    N  i  j  insky 


curtain  rose  he  had  told  me  that  dancing  and 
pantomime  were  very  pretty  to  look  at,  but  that  he 
found  no  stimulation  in  watching  them,  no  mental 
and  spiritual  exaltation,  such  as  might  follow  a 
performance  of  Hamlet.  Having  seen  Nij  insky,  I 
could  not  agree  with  him  —  and  this  indifferent  ob- 
server became  that  evening  himself  a  fervent  disci- 
ple of  the  Ballet.  For  Nij  insky  gave  him,  he 
found,  just  what  his  ideal  performance  of  Shake- 
speare's play  might  have  given  him,  a  basis  for 
dreams,  for  thinking,  for  poetry.  The  ennobling 
effect  of  all  great  and  perfect  art,  after  the  pri- 
mary emotion,  seems  to  be  to  set  our  minds  wander- 
ing in  a  thousand  channels,  to  suggest  new  outlets. 
Pater's  experience  before  the  Monna  Lisa  is  only 
unique  in  its  intense  and  direct  expression. 

No  writer,  no  musician,  no  painter,  can  feel 
deep  emotion  before  a  work  of  art  without  ex- 
pressing it  in  some  way,  although  the  expression 
may  be  a  thousand  leagues  removed  from  the  in- 
spiration. And  how  few  of  us  can  view  the  art  of 
Nij  insky  without  emotion!  To  the  painter  he 
gives  a  new  sense  of  proportion,  to  the  musician 
a  new  sense  of  rhythm,  while  to  the  writer  he  must 
perforce  immediately  suggest  new  words ;  better 
still,  new  meanings  for  old  words.  Dance,  panto- 
mime, acting,  harmony,  all  these  divest  themselves 

[  ni  ] 


Interpreters 

of  their  worn-out  accoutrements  and  appear,  as  if 
clothed  by  magic,  in  garments  of  unheard-of  nov- 
elty ;  hue,  texture,  cut,  and  workmanship  are  all  a 
surprise  to  us.  We  look  enraptured,  we  go  away 
enthralled,  and  perhaps  even  unconsciously  a  new 
quality  creeps  into  our  own  work.  It  is  the  same 
glamour  cast  over  .us  by  contemplation  of  the 
Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  or  the  Roman  Theatre  at 
Orange,  or  the  Cathedral  at  Chartres, —  the  in- 
spiration for  one  of  the  most  word- jewelled  books 
in  any  language  —  or  the  New  York  sky  line  at 
twilight  as  one  sails  away  into  the  harbour,  or  a 
great  iron  crane  which  lifts  tons  of  alien  matter  in 
its  gaping  maw.  Great  music  can  give  us  this  feel- 
ing, the  symphonies  of  Beethoven,  Mozart's  Don 
Giovanni,  Schubert's  C  Major  Symphony,  or  Ce- 
sar Franck's  D  Minor,  The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring 
of  Strawinsky,  UApres-midi  d'un  Faune  of  De- 
bussy, Chabrier's  Rhapsody,  Espana;  great  inter- 
pretative musicians  can  give  it  to  us,  Ysaye  at  his 
best,  Paderewski,  Marcella  Sembrich  in  song  re- 
cital ;  but  how  few  -artists  on  the  stage  suggest 
even  as  much  as  the  often  paltry  lines  of  the  au- 
thor, the  often  banal  music  of  the  composer ! 
There  is  an  au  dela  to  all  great  interpretative  art, 
something  that  remains  after  story,  words,  pic- 
ture, and  gesture  have  faded  vaguely  into  that 
[172] 


Waslav    Nijinsky 


storeroom  in  our  memories  where  are  concealed 
these  lovely  ghosts  of  ephemeral  beauty,  and  the 
artist  who  is  able  to  give  us  this  is  blessed  even 
beyond  his  knowledge,  for  to  him  has  been  vouch- 
safed the  sacred  kiss  of  the  gods.  This  quality 
cannot  be  acquired,  it  cannot  even  be  described, 
but  it  can  be  felt.  With  its  beneficent  aid  the  in- 
terpreter not  only  contributes  to  our  pleasure,  he 
broadens  our  horizon,  adds  to  our  knowledge  and 
capacity  for  feeling. 

As  I  read  over  these  notes  I  realize  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  discover  flaws  in  the  art  of  this 
young  man.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  his  chosen 
medium  he  approaches  perfection.  What  he  at- 
tempts to  do,  he  always  does  perfectly.  Can  one 
say  as  much  for  any  other  interpreter?  But  it  is 
a  difficult  matter  to  give  the  spirit  of  Nijinsky,  to 
describe  his  art  on  paper,  to  capture  the  abun- 
dant grace,  the  measureless  poetry,  the  infinite  illu- 
sion of  his  captivating  motion  in  ink.  Who  can 
hope  to  do  it?  Future  generations  must  take  our 
word  for  his  greatness.  We  can  do  little  more 
than  call  it  that.  I  shall  have  served  my  purpose 
if  I  have  succeeded  in  this  humble  article  in  bring- 
ing back  to  those  who  have  seen  him  a  flashing 
glimpse  of  the  imaginative  actuality. 

January  16,  1917. 

[173] 


The     Problem     of     Style 

in     the     Production     of 

Opera 

"  Take  care  of  the  sense  and  the  sounds  will  take 
care  of  themselves." 

The  Duchess  in  "  Alice  in  Wonderland." 


The  Problem  of  Style 

in  the  Production 

of  Opera 

WHEN  some  one,  not  reckoning  the  cost 
to  my  reason,  casually  informed  me 
that  Maria  was  to  be  produced  with 
new  scenery  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
during  the  season  of  1915—16  I  literally  foamed 
at  the  mouth.  Marta,  the  last  opera  in  the  world 
to  need  scenery  at  all,  to  be  mounted  freshly,  while 
Gotterdammerung  and  Die  Walkure,  so  far  as 
stage  decoration  was  concerned,  remained  a  dis- 
grace to  the  institution.  Marta  is  a  product  of 
one  of  the  "  great  periods  of  song."  Its  protag- 
onists are  given  many  an  opportunity  to  warble 
prettily  and  this  warbling  can  be  accomplished  to 
the  best  effect  on  a  stage  of  the  epoch  of  its  birth, 
that  is  a  stage  with  an  apron  which  projects  into 
the  orchestra  so  that  when  the  diva  sings  she  is 
surrounded  by  her  auditors  on  three  sides.  Foot- 
lights, preferably  gas  ones,  crystal  chandeliers 
for  the  salon  scenes,  sliding  "  flats,"  and  battered 
"  sky-borders  "  in  narrow  strips  for  the  exterior 
scenes,  all  belong  to  this  period  of  opera.  The 
soprano,  the  tenor,  and  the  other  singers  should 
[177] 


Interpretations 


advance  to  that  point  of  the  apron  nearest  the 
audience  to  deliver  the  roulades,  trills,  and  other 
florid  investiture  of  the  music  .  .  .  and  we  would 
be  transported  back  to  the  great  days  of  Catalani, 
Persiani,  Cinti-Damoureau,  Malibran,  Jenny  Lind, 
and  Sontag  .  .  .  But  alas,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
operas  written  for  apron  stages  are  still  frequently 
performed,  aprons  have  gone  out.  The  New  York 
Hippodrome  boasts  an  apron  but  Maria  could  not 
conceivably  be  sung  there  (speaking  from  my  own 
point  of  view ;  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  impres- 
sario  almost  any  opera  can  be  performed  almost 
anywhere). 

Marta,  La  Sonnambula,  Lucia,  Rigoletto,  La 
Traviata  would  all  benefit  by  a  revival  of  treat- 
ment; on  the  other  hand  the  operas  of  Mozart 
would  be  improved  by  new  decoration,  in  the  ro- 
coco style  to  be  sure,  and  to  effect  the  frequent 
changes  of  scene  expeditiously  the  use  of  a  revolv- 
ing stage  is  advisable,  but  these  modernites  might 
easily  be  combined  with  the  advantage  of  an  apron 
stage.  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro  and  Don  Giovanni 
would  both  be  more  effective  if  they  were  sung  on 
a  stage  with  an  apron.  So  would  II  Barbiere  di 
Siviglia.  Compare  the  effect  of  Una  voce  poco  fa 
sung  at  the  left  stage  centre  in  the  "  realistic  " 
modern  manner  and  on  an  apron  stage  and  you 
[178] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

will  understand  why  there  were  queens  of  song  in 
1840  and  why  there  are  none  to-day.  You  will  un- 
derstand why  men  and  women  alike  showered  their 
favourites  with  bouquets  of  gardenias  and  violets, 
why  they  pelted  them  with  bracelets  and  brooches. 
Do  you  suppose  that  Jenny  Lind  could  repeat  her 
success  at  Castle  Garden  in  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House?  Do  you  fancy  that  Mme.  Malibran 
could  hope  for  much  attention  under  present  day 
conditions?  With  all  due  appreciation  of  the 
greatness  of  Mme.  Melba  and  Mme.  Sembrich,  with 
reverence  and  respect  for  their  triumphs,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  these  singers  were  products  of 
that  school  which  best  flourishes  on  the  apron 
stage  and  these  triumphs,  at  least  so  far  as  out- 
ward manifestations  go,  might  have  been  trebled 
if  the  ladies  had  had  the  opportunities  of  their 
luckier  sisters,  born  a  half  century  or  so  earlier. 
The  modern  opera  stage  and  the  modern  opera 
have  produced  the  singing  actress,  Mary  Gar- 
den, Olive  Fremstad,  and  Geraldine  Farrar. 
Here  are  ladies  who  achieve  some  of  their  best  mo- 
ments through  the  appeal  to  the  eye.  They  are 
the  inevitable  complement  of  operas  like  Louise, 
Cavalleria  Rusticana,  Elektra,  Salome,  and  .  .  . 
Madama  Butterfly,  operas  in  which  the  "  fourth 
wall "  convention  of  Ibsen  is  more  or  less  ob- 
[179] 


I  nterp  relations 


served.  But  these  works  form  a  very  small  part 
of  the  modern  repertoire,  which  includes  operas  in 
all  musical  styles,  the  books  of  which  demand 
great  variety  in  stage  decoration,  different  kinds 
of  singers,  different  kinds  of  acting,  and  different 
types  of  stages.  There  are  operas  suitable  for 
the  apron  stage  and  the  conventions  of  the  For- 
ties; there  are  the  Wagner  music  dramas,  an  in- 
vention of  their  composer,  which  require  no  end 
of  special  attention;  there  are  symbolic  lyric 
plays  like  Pelleas  et  Melisande  and  Ariane  et 
Barbe-Bleue;  there  are  musical  comedies  like  Die 
Meistersinger  and  The  Bartered  Bride;  there  are 
children's  plays  like  Hansel  und  Gretel  and  Cen- 
drillon;  there  are  operas-bouffes  like  La  Fille  de 
Madame  Angot  and  operas-comiques  like  Manon 
and  Fra  Diavolo;  there  are  operas  sung  in  Ger- 
man, French,  and  Italian  (occasionally  in  English 
and  Spanish,  and  Russian  and  Bohemian  operas 
sung  in  any  tongue  at  all)  ;  there  are  operas  which 
are  all  music  and  other  operas  which  are  all  drama : 
all  these  are  presented  (some  thirty-three  of  them 
during  a  season)  on  one  stage,  by  one  company  (to 
be  sure  concessions  are  made  to  languages  [neces- 
sarily ;  this  is  no  managerial  virtue]  and  Germans 
are  usually  engaged  for  the  Wagner  music  dramas) 
[180] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

in  more  or  less  the  same  general  manner.  That  is 
why  the  production  of  opera,  no  matter  how  badly 
done,  is  difficult,  and  seldom  lucrative.  There  are 
remedies.  They  would  involve  the  limitation  of 
the  repertoire  (the  best  possible  remedy,  although 
one  not  complete  in  itself),  the  utilization  of  two 
or  more  theatres  (this  method  is  in  vogue  in  Paris, 
Munich,  and  a  few  other  cities),  or  the  possible 
adaptation  of  the  stage  to  emergencies.  In  addi- 
tion, in  order  to  give  creditable  performances  of 
thirty-three  operas,  a  very  large  company  would 
be  required  and  a  different  director  for  every  three 
works,  for  you  cannot  expect  one  man,  looking 
after  the  decoration,  the  lights,  and  the  action,  to 
produce  more,  than  three  operas  during  one  season 
with  any  degree  of  artistic  success.  Of  course 
only  a  few  of  the  operas  in  the  repertoire  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  each  season  are  new. 
But  old  works  cannot  be  reproduced  without  a 
good  deal  of  attention. 

Just  by  way  of  making  my  point  clearer  I  have 
compiled  a  list  of  the  operas  sung  at  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  during  the  season  of  1914-15, 
which  on  the  whole  may  be  taken  to  be  fairly  rep- 
resentative, although  it  does  not  include  many  of 
the  earlier  operas  often  given  such  as  Orfeo,  Ar- 
[181] 


Interpretations 


mide,  Don  Giovanni,  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro,  Lucia,  La 
Sonnambula,  and  II  Barbiere  di  Svciglia.  Here  is 
the  list: 

Die  Zauberftote 1791 .  .  German 

Fidelio 1805 .  .  German 

Euryanthe 1823 .  .  German 

Les  Huguenots  (sung  in  Italian)  .  .1836.  .French 

Tannhauser 1845 .  .  German 

Lohengrin 1850.  .German 

II  Trovatore 1853.  .Italian 

La  Traviata 1853.  .Italian 

Un  Ballo  in  Maschera 1859 .  .  Italian 

Tristan  und  Isolde 1865.  .German 

Die  Meistersinger  .  .  . 1868.  .German 

Das  Rheingold 1869 .  .  German 

Die  Wallcure 1870.  .German 

Aida 1871.  .Italian 

Boris  Godunow  (sung  in  Italian) .  .  1874.  .Russian 

Carmen   1875 .  .  French 

La  Gioconda 1876 .  .  Italian 

Siegfried 1876 .  .  German 

Gotterdammerung 1876 .  .  German 

Parsifal 1882.  . German 

Manon 1884 .  .  French 

Cavalleria  Rusticana 1890.  .  Italian 

Pagliacci 1892 .  .  Italian 

Manon  Lescaut 1893 .  .  Italian 

[182] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

Hansel  und  Gretel 1893 .  .  German 

La  Bolieme 1896 .  .  Italian 

Iris    1898.  .Italian 

Tosca    1900.  .Italian 

Madama  Butterfly 1904.  .Italian 

UOracolo   1905.  .Italian 

Der  Rosenkaxalier 1911 .  .German 

L'Amore  del  Tre  Re 1913.  .Italian 

Mme.  Sans-Gene 1915 .  .  Italian 

The  dates  refer  to  the  original  productions,  not, 
of  course,  necessarily  in  New  York.  Aside  from 
the  contradictions  indicated  by  dates  and  lan- 
guages there  are  many  others  which  cannot  be 
suggested  so  formally.  There  is  no  account  taken, 
in  the  list,  for  example,  of  the  differences  in  styles 
of  works  of  the  same  period  and  in  the  same  lan- 
guage. Hansel  und  Gretel  and  Der  Rosenka-ca- 
lier  are  German  operas  of  the  same  epoch  and  yet 
they  demand  very  different  treatment  in  stage  dec- 
oration, in  song,  and  in  action.  The  same  prin- 
ciple holds  good  in  relation  to  L'Amore  del  Tre  Re 
and  Mme.  Sans-Gene,  La  Bolieme  and  Pagliacci. 
To  make  my  point  still  sharper  I  have  prepared  a 
list  of  thirty-three  plays  of  many  dates  and  many 
languages.  Now  in  the  theatre  there  is  no  musical 
accompaniment  to  a  drama  to  prepare,  no  singing 
to  be  done,  and  vet  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  pos- 
[183] 


I  nterp  relations 


sible  for  a  company,  even  as  large  as  that  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  to  give  creditable  per- 
formances of  all  these  plays  in  the  languages  in 
which  they  were  written  at  one  theatre  in  one  sea- 
son. Miss  Grace  George  recently  succeeded  in 
presenting,  with  some  degree  of  thoroughness,  five 
plays  in  a  single  season  at  the  Playhouse  in  New 
York.  These  plays,  however,  were  all  modern 
comedies  which  did  not  differ  markedly  in  style  and 
which  presented  no  great  problems  for  the  stage 
decorators  .  .  .  and  they  were  all  in  English. 
Even  so,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  members  of 
her  company  had  been  trained  in  pieces  of  this 
general  style  she  found  it  necessary  to  make  addi- 
tions and  subtractions  for  every  change  of  bill. 
And  I  do  not  think  that  Miss  Grace  George,  David 
Belasco,  George  Tyler,  Arthur  Hopkins,  Rudolf 
Christians,  Jacques  Copeau,  and  the  Washington 
Square  Players  together  could  render  a  satisfac- 
tory account  of  the  following  list  (in  the  original 
languages)  in  one  season  at  a  single  theatre: 

William  Tell 
Le  Barbier  de  Seville 
La  Locandiera 
The  Lady  of  Lyons 
Caste 

The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray 
[184] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

Jim  the  Penman 

Nobody's  Widow 

La  Dame  aux  Camelias 

Francesca  da  Rimini 

The  Seagull 

Arms  and  the  Man 

Heimath 

Hannele 

Faust 

The  Colleen  Bawn 

Charley's  Aunt 

L'Aiglon 

Le  Voleur 

The  School  for  Scandal 

Jungfrau  von  Orleans 

Maria  Stuart 

The  Easiest  Way 

Man  and  Superman 

As  You  Like  It 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Hamlet 

Macbeth 

La  Course  du  Flambeau 

Les  Affaires  Sont  les  Affaires 

The  New  York  Idea 

Divorcons 

La  Tosca 

[185] 


Interpretations 


There  are  theatres  in  Europe  which  attempt  as 
long  a  list  as  this,  notably  some  of  the  state  the- 
atres of  Germany  and  the  Comedie  Francaise  in 
Paris.  However,  in  these  instances  certain  dis- 
tinctions are  to  be  observed:  (1)  the  entire  rep- 
ertoire is  played  in  one  language ;  (  2  )  the  ma j  or- 
ity  of  plays  in  the  repertoire  are  written  in  that 
language;  (3)  the  actors  have  been  trained  to 
be  versatile  and  to  readily  suit  themselves  to  new 
parts;  (4)  the  greater  number  of  plays  at  insti- 
tutions of  this  character  are  not  any  too  well  per- 
formed or  produced.  He  is  a  great  director,  for 
example,  who  can  get  equally  fine  results  with  The 
Seagull,  in  which  a  greater  part  of  the  play  de- 
pends upon  overtones,  subconscious  values,  and 
Jim  the  Penman,  in  which  a  greater  part  of  the 
play  depends  upon  undertones  (Curse  yous  hissed 
between  the  teeth),  overconscious  values. 

I  do  not  think  a  course  of  training  will  help  out 
the  operatic  impresario.  The  father  of  a  man  I 
knew  in  college  once  insisted  that  his  son  skin  a 
pig.  "  You  never  know  when  experience  of  this 
sort  may  come  in  handy,"  was  the  old  man's  expla- 
nation. So  far  as  I  know  it  never  has.  Gordon 
Craig  advises  every  young  man  to  learn  how  to 
design  costumes  and  how  to  stage  a  play  so  that 
when  he  is  put  in  charge  of  a  theatre  he  will  know 
[186] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

what  to  do.  Yet  even  Gordon  Craig  would  not,  I 
think,  be  able  to  make  appropriate  decorations  and 
arrange  suitable  and  unconventional  action  for  all 
the  plays  and  operas  I  have  mentioned.  Further 
it  is  Craig's  idea  that  the  author  should  be  his 
own  costumier,  stage  decorator,  and  stage  di- 
rector (Craig's  final  decision  to  do  away  with  the 
actor  we  must  perforce  ignore),  a  theory  all  very 
well  for  live  authors  but  what  about  dead  ones? 
Composers  of  opera  are  frequently  dead.  An- 
other question  arises:  should  the  composer  or  his 
librettist  be  considered  the  author?  .  .  .  After  all 
the  role  of  the  impresario  is  to  mould  the  forces 
under  him  together,  to  arrange  about  payments 
and  the  collections  of  moneys,  to  see  that  the  box 
office  receipts  do  not  run  too  far  below  the  ex- 
penses of  the  theatre,  and  to  humour  recalcitrant 
sopranos.  I  have  known  many  operatic  impre- 
sarios. Andre  Messager,  once  at  the  head  of  the 
Paris  Opera,  is  a  composer  of  pretty,  light  operas  ; 
he  is  also  a  conductor.  Andreas  Dippel,  who  has 
headed  both  the  Metropolitan  and  the  Chicago 
Opera  Companies,  was  at  one  time  a  tenor  whose 
principal  asset  was  an  elastic  repertoire  which 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  replace  any  other  tenor 
at  twenty-four  minutes'  notice  in  almost  any  oper- 
atic role  in  almost  any  operatic  language. 
[187] 


Interpretations 


Neither  of  these  men  was  a  brilliant  success  as  an 
impresario  although  both  of  them  probably  knew 
a  good  deal  about  what  they  wanted  to  accomplish. 
Henry  Russell,  once  a  music  teacher,  gave  America 
some  of  the  most  interesting  performances  of 
operas  it  has  had.  He  is  particularly  to  be 
thanked  for  having  brought  Joseph  Urban  to  us. 
Oscar  Hammerstein  was  a  cigar-maker  (he  is  still 
on  days  when  he  is  bored) ;  Giulio  Gatti-Casazza 
was  a  naval  engineer;  Heinrich  Conried  was  an 
actor;  Maurice  Grau  .  .  .  Col.  Mapleson  .  .  . 
the  list  of  impresarios  is  as  long  as  one  cares  to 
make  it  ...  Oscar  Hammerstein  has  an  extraor- 
dinary flair  for  the  production  of  opera,  mostly 
the  result  of  an  inordinate  and  inexplicable  fond- 
ness for  this  form  of  music.  He  has  frequently 
been  able  to  do  what  men  of  more  experience  (in 
this  direction)  and  better  taste  have  failed  in  do- 
ing. His  productions  of  French  opera,  while  of- 
ten execrable  so  far  as  stage  decoration  was  con- 
cerned, were  the  best  that  have  been  given  in  New 
York.  Louise,  Pelleas  et  Melisande,  Thais,  Saplw, 
Le  Jongleur  de  Notre  Dame,  Les  Contes  d'Hoff- 
mann,  and  Carmen  all  had  spirit,  atmosphere,  and 
effective  interpretation  at  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House.  This  was  because  the  impresario  en- 
gaged his  singers  with  a  view  to  their  appearances 
[188] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

in  certain  operas  and  then  encouraged  them  to  do 
their  best  by  sitting  in  the  "  first  entrance  "  on 
his  own  stage.  Maurice  Grau  is  principally  fa- 
mous for  having  developed  the  "  star "  system. 
When  he  found  a  singer  who  could  draw  money  in 
a  certain  opera  she  was  exploited  in  that  opera 
until  the  last  drop  of  interest  had  been  extracted 
from  the  public  purse.  When  single  stars  waned 
he  offered  them  in  galaxies  at  bargain  rates  and 
so  sated  the  public  with  vocal  splendours  in  Les 
Huguenots  and  one  or  two  other  works  that  it  took 
a  decade  or  two  to  convince  us  afterwards  that 
operas  are  just  as  good  when  they  are  presented 
by  mediocre  talent.  Heinrich  Conried  did  not  at- 
tempt to  destroy  the  star  system  immediately  but 
he  was  German  and  economical  and,  little  by  little, 
he  brought  about  a  change.  Like  all  Germans  in 
charge  of  theatres  he  was  very  thorough,  almost 
finickal.  His  taste  was  not  of  the  best,  at  least 
in  stage  decoration.  He  inherited  many  of  the 
Grau  stars  and  he  provided  many  more,  notably 
Enrico  Caruso.  He  entered  into  negotiations 
with  Maurice  Renaud  and  Luisa  Tetrazzini ;  but  it 
was  left  to  Mr.  Hammerstein  to  bring  these  artists 
to  New  York.  His  production  of  Parsifal  was, 
according  to  the  German  traditions,  very  fine.  He 
did  noteworthy  feats  with  Hansel  und  Gretel  and 
[189] 


I  nterp  relations 


Salome.  But  he  is  principally  to  be  remembered 
for  what  he  did  to  improve  the  chorus  and  orches- 
tra. He  provided  a  German  chorus,  indeed,  which 
came  to  be  one  of  the  glories  of  the  institution. 
Most  of  the  Grau  stars  and  some  of  the  Conried 
luminaries  were  fading  when  Mr.  Gatti-Casazza 
came  into  office.  He  has  endeavoured,  sometimes 
with  success,  to  supply  that  lack.  Aided  by  able 
lieutenants  he  has  put  the  Opera  House  on  a  pay- 
ing basis.  He  inherited  a  fine  orchestra  and  cho- 
rus and  he  brought  forward  a  genius  as  conductor, 
Arturo  Toscanini.  He  has  been  professedly  an 
enemy  to  modern  tendencies  in  stage  decoration, 
and  only  once,  when  the  investiture  of  Boris  Godu- 
now  was  bought  outright  from  the  Russian  com- 
pany which  produced  it  in  Paris,  has  he  given  us  a 
taste  of  the  best  in  the  new  art.  As  for  stage  di- 
rection operas  are  produced  according  to  tradi- 
tion (the  tradition  of  the  house  itself)  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan Opera  House.  In  the  end,  of  course, 
this  means  dependence  on  an  appalling  amount  of 
routine.  Occasionally  there  are  brilliant  individ- 
ual performances.  The  ensemble,  chorus,  orches- 
tra, etc.,  are  invariably  good,  musically  speaking. 
The  stage  management  is  very  old-fashioned  and  is 
not  calculated  to  bring  out  the  best  in  the  operas 
presented  ...  In  one  sense,  in  one  very  real 
[190] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

sense,  Mr.  Gatti-Casazza  has  done  our  public  a 
service  in  producing  such  operas  (some  of  them 
for  the  first  time  here)  as  The  Bartered  Bride,  Fi- 
delio,  Armide,  Orfeo,  Ariane  et  Barbe-Bleue,  Die 
Zauberflote,  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro,  Euryanthe,  I  phi- 
genie  en  Tauride,  Boris  Godunow,  Prince  Igor  and 
Der  Rosenkavalier,  but  it  cannot  be  said  in  any  of 
these  instances  (with  the  possible  exceptions  of 
The  Bartered  Bride,  Boris  Godunow,  and,  to  a 
certain  extent,  Orfeo)  that  the  works  have  been 
presented  with  full  regard  for  their  style.  There 
were  extraordinary  features  about  the  production 
of  Armide,  the  impersonation  of  Olive  Fremstad, 
the  singing  of  Mr.  Caruso,  and  the  conducting  of 
Mr.  Toscanini,  but  the  scenery  was  hopeless  frip- 
pery, the  stage  direction  sloppy,  and  the  impor- 
tant ballets  were  massacred  while  Anna  Pavlowa, 
a  member  of  the  company  at  the  time,  danced  Au- 
tumn bacchanals  and  gave  imitations  of  dying 
swans  after  performances  of  Madama  Butterfly! 
She  was  not  called  in  to  enliven  the  dances  of  Ar- 
mide. Ariane  et  Barbe-Bleue  was  badly  miscast. 
One  can  think  of  no  other  role  in  which  Mme.  Far- 
rar  has  so  completely  failed ;  the  settings  lacked 
atmosphere ;  the  lighting  in  the  second  act  was  in 
direct  defiance  of  the  explicit  directions  of  the 
author.  When  Ariane  liberates  Blue  Beard's 
[191] 


Interp  relations 


wives  from  their  cellar  prison  they  are  supposed 
to  glimpse  the  brilliant  sunglare  from  their  cave  of 
darkness.  But  it  was  found  prettier  to  begin  the 
scene  with  a  moonlight  effect,  and  shortly  after,  as 
the  lights  grew  brighter,  the  bells  pealed  the  noon- 
day hour!  However  Mr.  Toscanini's  orchestra 
was  at  its  best  in  its  performance  of  this  lyric 
drama.  One  would  scarcely  know  where  to  begin 
to  find  fault  with  the  production  of  Prince  Igor. 
Continually  it  seemed  to  give  a  wrong  impression 
of  the  opera  to  the  spectator  and  auditor. 
Neither  scenery,  action,  nor  vocal  interpretation 
were  appropriate. 

There  is  certainly  any  amount  of  time  and  money 
spent  on  new  productions  at  the  Metropolitan, 
although  it  cannot  be  said  that  they  are  spent  to 
advantage.  New  and  elaborate  scenery  of  the 
most  approved  Metropolitan  style  is  supplied  for 
each  new  opera.  For  example,  regard  the  deco- 
rations for  Iphigenie  en  Tauride,  in  which  we  find 
the  barbarian,  Thoas,  worshipping  in  a  temple 
which  seems  to  have  been  designed  by  the  latest 
architect  from  Athens,  and  such  a  temple !  Every 
detail  of  the  columns,  including  the  shadows  of  the 
flutings,  is  carefully  presented  to  the  eye,  as  are 
the  bas-reliefs.  These  details,  however,  are 
painted  in  perspective  on  flat  pieces  of  canvas. 
[192] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

Now  two  columns,  a  flight  of  steps,  a  marble  altar, 
and  a  back  sky  cloth  are  all  the  scenery  one  needs 
for  this  opera.  The  costumes,  too,  are  such  as 
to  cause  the  eye  to  wither  from  sheer  dread  and 
the  stage  action,  particularly  that  of  the  ballet, 
is  devised  to  remind  one  that  the  best  Black  Crook 
traditions  still  persist.  .  .  .  Any  means  of  stage 
treatment  justifies  its  existence  if  it  succeeds  in  es- 
tablishing the  mood  or  the  atmosphere  of  an  opera. 
But  do  not  the  contemporary  means  at  the  Metro- 
politan establish  pretty  much  the  same  atmos- 
phere for  Trovatore  and  Tristan  und  Isolde,  for 
Iphigenie  en  Tauride  and  Aida? 

It  is  only  by  specialization  (or  the  expenditure 
of  terrifying  sums  of  money)  that  opera  can  be 
given  in  an  artistic  and  (let  me  add)  wholly  effect- 
ive manner.  No  one  would  fancy  asking  tta  same 
interpreter  to  sing  both  Manon  and  Isolde  and  yet 
equally  stupid  mistakes  are  made  because  the  com- 
pany is  lacking  in  some  particular  personality  or 
other.  To  be  well  given  Manon  and  Trovatore 
should  be  performed  by  two  entirely  different  casts  ; 
so  should  Tristan  and  Trovatore.  But  the  mat- 
ter does  not  end  here.  If  it  did  we  should  have 
less  to  complain  about,  because  some  account  is 
taken  of  a  singer's  adaptability  for  different  roles, 
although  I  have  heard  performances  of  Faust  in 
[193] 


Interpretations 


New  York,  to  mention  a  familiar  opera  (I  might 
have  said  Ariane  et  Barbe-Bleue  or  Prince  Igor} 
which  might  have  been  improved  upon  even  in  Ger- 
many. (The  management  must  not  be  given  credit 
for  this  distinction,  however.  It  is  rare  that  a 
singer  sings  many  roles  well  in  several  languages. 
Mme.  Sembrich  and  Jean  de  Reszke  are  two  ex- 
ceptions to  this  rule  whose  names  occur  to  me. 
Olive  Fremstad  succeeded  in  compassing  the  style 
of  Armide  after  she  had  made  a  notable  career  in 
the  Wagner  music  dramas ;  she  did  not,  on  the  con- 
trary, add  to  her  reputation  by  her  interpretations 
of  Selika  and  Santuzza.  ...  It  is  necessary  for 
the  direction  to  select  a  separate  German  company 
because  the  French  and  Italian  singers  do  not,  as 
a  rule,  sing  German.  [Many  German  singers, 
Mme.  Gadski,  for  example,  have  a  large  Italian 
repertoire.  Miss  Destinn,  who  is  a  Bohemian,  is 
one  of  the  great  Italian  singers  of  this  period  of 
operatic  art.]  In  the  old  days  when  French  and 
Italian  opera  were  in  their  glory  here,  the  German 
works  were  sung  in  Italian  .  .  .  and  in  another 
day,  the  heyday  of  German  opera,  the  rep- 
ertoire was  sung  in  German.)  However,  the 
greater  stumbling  block  is  the  matter  of  produc- 
tion. Hardly  four  operas  in  this  list  can  be  found 
which  require  the  same  type  of  stage  decoration; 
[194] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

many  would  be  improved  if  they  were  to  be  given  on 
a  stage  of  a  different  kind  or  size;  all  of  them 
would  make  more  effect  if  some  account  were  taken 
of  their  style.  Of  course,  something  ought  to  be 
done  merely  to  avoid  monotony  if  for  no  other 
reason.  How  tiresome  it  is  to  watch  the  charac- 
ters in  Manon,  Tosca,  and  Siegfried  making  ex- 
actly the  same  stupid  stereotyped  operatic  ges- 
tures !  What  a  bore  to  observe  the  same  brush 
strokes  and  colours  in  the  scenery. 

Of  the  three  French  words  in  this  list  two  could 
be  sung  with  better  effect  in  a  small  theatre,  Car- 
men and  Manon.  They  both  belong  to  the  classi- 
fication known  as  opera-comique.  They  demand 
of  their  interpreters  a  special  style  in  acting  and 
singing,  a  style  never  perfectly  realized  by  other 
than  French  singers,  or  singers  trained  in  the 
French  style.  Mr.  Caruso  is  not  such  a  singer 
( although  no  French  tenor  could  have  given  more 
heavenly  utterance  to  the  beautiful  melodies  of 
Armide).  Jean  de  Reszke  was;  Sybil  Sanderson 
was ;  Clotilde  Bressler-Gianoli  was ;  Emma  Calve 
is ;  Mary  Garden  is.  Curiously  enough  Geraldine 
Farrar  is  in  certain  roles,  and  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  she  received  a  good  part  of  her  train- 
ing in  Paris.  Lucien  Muratore,  Jeanne  Mau- 
bourg,  Maurice  Renaud,  Edmond  Clement,  are  all 
[195] 


Interpretations 


singers  trained  in  the  French  style  and  when  a 
French  opera  is  sung  with  such  singers  in  the  cast 
one  is  sure  of  the  result  .  .  .  The  other  French 
opera  in  the  list,  Les  Huguenots,  is  not  opera- 
comique.  It  is  "  grand  opera  "  and  for  its  proper 
interpretation  it  requires  a  semblance  of  the  French 
grand  manner.  Several  of  the  singers  I  have  just 
mentioned  can  counterfeit  it  excellently.  .  .  . 
Meyerbeer's  masterpiece,  however,  is  not  Italian 
opera  and  singing  it  in  Italian  will  not  make  it  so. 
Let  us  consider  the  staging  of  these  works. 
Carmen  is  an  opera  often  acted  in  the  extreme 
"  realistic  "  manner,  and  yet  Carmen's  escape  over 
the  bridge  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  is  managed  in 
such  a  fashion  (invariably)  that  the  credulity  of 
the  spectator  is  imposed  upon.  This  must  be  the 
fault  of  the  arrangement  of  the  setting  or  of  the 
stage  management.  The  present  decoration  (and 
such  others  as  I  have  seen  there)  for  the  last  act 
of  Carmen  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  is 
ridiculous.  The  observer  is  obliged  to  ignore  the 
obvious  possibility  that  Carmen  could  escape  from 
her  maddened  persecutor  in  nearly  every  direc- 
tion. Exits  on  all  sides  but  no  place  for  Carmen 
to  go!  At  the  Opera-Comique  in  Paris  the  bull- 
ring is  placed  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  the  door  in 
the  centre.  Shops  with  arcades,  very  much  like 
[196] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

those  of  the  Rue  Royale  in  Paris,  hem  in  the  sides 
of  the  stage.  The  only  entrances  to  the  scene  are 
from  the  gate  of  the  bull-ring  and  from  the  street 
which  runs  parallel  with  the  footlights  at  the  front 
of  the  stage.  Sometime  during  her  scene  with 
Jose  Carmen  attempts  to  re-enter  the  ring  but 
discovers  that  the  gate  has  been  locked.  As  she 
turns  up  the  narrow  impasse  she  looks  from  right 
to  left.  There  is  no  way  of  escape  .  .  .  and  when 
Jose  finally  stabs  her  she  is  attempting  to  climb 
the  gate  into  the  ring.  I  do  not  believe  that  at- 
tention to  such  details  mars  the  production  of  a 
drama.  If  I  were  engaging  an  artist  to  paint 
scenery  for  a  play  it  seems  to  me  that  I  would 
expect  him  to  think  of  them.  It  is  incredible  but 
ordinarily  no  one  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  ever  does  think  of  them.  The  scenic  artist 
for  Carmen  should  consider  the  aspects  of  the 
drama  from  every  possible  point  of  view.  Then 
he  should  try  to  give  his  scenery  intention.  The 
decorations,  mostly  sunny  exteriors,  should  blaze 
with  colour.  Joseph  Urban  might  do  something 
right  here  if  he  hasn't  already  .  .  .  But  I  would 
not  ask  Joseph  Urban  to  paint  Manon.  The  same 
artist  might  conceivably  paint  the  settings  (which 
should  be  charmingly  rococo)  for  Manon,  Der 
Rosenkavalier,  and  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro,  although 
[197] 


Interpretations 


it  would  take  a  versatile  director  to  stage  all  these 
works.  I  think  Robert  Locher  would  do  the  paint- 
ing for  them  very  nicely.  He  would  make  j  ust  the 
right  distinctions  in  colour  and  line  between  the 
boudoirs  of  Manon,  the  Countess,  and  the 
Marschallin  ...  It  is  all  very  well  for  Gordon 
Craig  to  say  that  the  decorator,  the  actor,  and 
the  director  are  all  working  for  their  own  ends 
and  not  for  the  play.  It  is  all  very  well  for  him 
to  insist  that  all  these  faculties  be  invested  in  one 
person.  The  question  is,  when  Don  Giovanni  or 
Rienzi  or  Werther  is  concerned,  who  is  that  per- 
son? We  must  content  ourselves,  I  think,  until 
the  republic  of  Utopia,  or  Gordon  Craig's  ideal 
theatre,  is  established,  with  a  stage  director  who 
supervises  all  the  details  in  an  attempt  to  produce 
unity.  In  other  words  the  different  toilers  in  the 
theatre  must  work  together  for  a  common  end,  per- 
fection. The  Washington  Square  Players,  in 
some  of  their  productions,  are  well  on  the  way 
towards  this  goal. 

The  works  of  Wagner  demand  a  manner  of 
treatment  all  their  own.  The  Master  thought  they 
required  a  theatre  to  themselves  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  wasn't  right.  It  is  certain  that  he 
invented  a  new  form  of  drama,  but  it  is  equally 
certain  that  many  composers  since  his  time  have 
[198] 


The     Problem    of    Style 

written  works  in  this  form.  There  are  a  few 
other  operas  which  might  conceivably  be  presented 
in  a  Wagner  Theatre,  if  it  were  not  too  large, 
Aida,  Les  Huguenots,  La  Gioconda  .  .  .  certain 
works  of  Gluck,  Armide,  for  example.  I  have  writ- 
ten out  elsewhere  a  few  of  my  ideas  concerning  the 
staging  of  the  Wagner  music  dramas  and  I  have 
referred  at  some  length  to  Adolphe  Appia's  book 
on  the  subject.  Until  Appia's  theories,  and  his 
lovely  designs  for  stage  settings,  have  been  tested 
on  our  stage  it  seems  unnecessary  to  search 
farther.  Appia  has  taken  the  pains  to  indicate 
not  only  the  lighting  ("  Apollo  was  not  only  the 
god  of  music,  he  was  also  the  god  of  light  ")  of 
the  scenes  but  also  the  position  and  often  the  ges- 
tures of  the  characters  in  their  relation  to  the 
decoration  and  the  lighting.  He  saw  clearly 
enough  that  Wagner  had  invented  a  form  of  drama 
which  he  himself  did  not  know  how  to  produce 
with  the  means  at  hand.  Now  in  this  matter  the 
directors  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  have 
been  blameless,  or  blind.  They  have  followed,  at 
a  respectable  distance  to  be  sure,  but  at  consider- 
able expense,  the  best  European  productions  of 
the  Wagner  plays  .  .  .  but  there  has  never  been 
a  production  of  the  Wagnerian  works  anywhere 
which  realized  the  ideals  of  the  Master,  although 
[199] 


Interpretations 


in  Germany  the  principle  of  the  exclusion  of  late 
comers  and  the  use  of  a  sunken  orchestra  pit  cer- 
tainly improve  matters. 

It  is  conceivable,  of  course,  that  operas  like 
Aida,  11  Trovatore,  Les  Huguenots,  and  Gotter- 
ddmmerung  might  be  given  satisfactory  perform- 
ances on  the  same  stage  but  if  they  were  included  in 
a  single  season  they  demand  a  triple  series  of  in- 
terpreters and  different  stage  directors.  I  should 
like  to  hear  Trovatore  sung  with  the  melodramatic 
intensity  that  the  music  suggests,  but  there  is  no 
Tamagno  to-day,  and  no  rendering  of  Di  Quella 
Pira  has  ever  frozen  my  blood,  or  made  every 
separate  hair  stand  on  end,  as  it  should.  For 
Meyerbeer's  opera  we  must  search  the  great  French 
manner  in  acting  and  singing,  and  a  refinement  of 
gesture  in  the  interpreters  which  is  not  a  require- 
ment for  a  performance  of  Verdi's  opera.  The 
scenery  for  both  these  works  is  negligible  (al- 
though there  is  no  particular  reason  why  it  should 
not  be  pleasant  to  look  upon).  I  mean  that  any 
flapping  canvas  will  do  if  the  proper  tentings  and 
palaces  are  painted  thereon  .  .  .  but  good  scen- 
ery in  modern  Russian  style  is  essential  to  a  per- 
fect performance  of  Boris  Godunow. 

Fidelio,  Die  Zauberflote,  and  Euryanthe  are  all 
German  operas  and  they  all  were  originally  pro- 
[200] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

duced  within  a  period  of  thirty-two  years.  Nev- 
ertheless if  the  same  man  paints  the  scenery  for 
all  these  plays  he  must  be  an  artist  of  exceptional 
talent.  The  sombre  decoration  of  Fidelia  must  be 
a  sounding  board  for  Beethoven's  noble  music,  a 
background  for  the  noble  passions  of  his  protag- 
onists .  .  .  Bakst  should  be  the  next  designer 
for  a  production  of  Mozart's  fantastic  holiday  ma- 
sonic play  and  I  am  not  sure  that  Florenz  Zieg- 
feld  should  not  stage  it.  At  any  rate  the  opera 
should  be  put  on,  in  certain  of  the  scenes,  in  romp- 
ing merry  mood;  these  episodes  should  offer  the 
greatest  possible  contrast  to  the  serious  scenes  in 
which  Sarastro  figures.  Euryanthe  leads  us  into 
romantic  Germany  and  for  both  stage  decorator 
and  stage  director  a  new  problem  is  posed  .  .  . 
problems  entirely  apart  from  those  of  vocal  styles. 
It  is  a  clever  and  accomplished  singer  who  can 
enact  both  Pamina  and  Leonora,  who  can  sing  both 
Ach,  ich  fuhl's,  es  ist  entscliwunden  and  Abscheu- 
licher  with  equal  success. 

I  have  indicated,  briefly,  some  of  the  reasons  why 
we  do  not  see  (and  hear)  satisfactory  perform- 
ances of  opera.  There  are  others.  In  an  opera 
house,  first  of  all,  there  is  tradition,  which  is  fol- 
lowed by  certain  stage  directors  when  it  does  not 
interfere  with  expedience.  In  the  end  this  min- 
[201  ] 


Interpretations 


gling  of  tradition  with  expedience  makes  a  new 
tradition  which  is  established  for  a  particular  the- 
atre. Operas  like  Madama  Butterfly  and  Aida 
which  are  presented  year  after  year,  are  given 
without  orchestral  rehearsals,  the  manner  of  the 
house  is  so  well  established  in  regard  to  them.  But 
there  are  those  who  always  fight  against  tradition 
(I  may  mention  Geraldine  Farrar  and  Feodor 
Chaliapine)  and  who  frequently  make  changes  in 
their  individual  performances.  So  frequently  we 
see  members  of  the  same  cast  playing  in  different 
styles  against  scenery  which  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  purpose  of  the  opera  (which  reminds  you  of  all 
the  other  scenery  you  have  ever  seen  in  the  same 
house),  and  with  a  stage  manager  who  is  glad 
enough  to  get  the  opera  on  without  a  break-down. 
Lyric  dramas  —  at  least  those  in  the  repertoire  — 
are  frequently  produced  after  a  single  piano  re- 
hearsal by  singers  who  have  never  appeared  to- 
gether before  and  who  may  never  appear  together 
again.  In  a  sense  they  are  all  familiar  with  the 
stage  routine,  although  they  may  differ  in  detail, 
but  in  no  instance  (at  least  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House)  unless  a  new  work  is  under  consid- 
eration, is  the  action,  the  lighting,  and  the  scenic 
investiture  studied  from  beginning  to  end  in  an 
attempt  to  make  a  perfect  whole  of  it.  Nor  would 
[202] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

it  be  possible,  under  conditions  as  they  exist,  to 
do  so  even  if  the  director  of  the  theatre  so  desired. 
There  is  no  time.  The  ordinary  rehearsals  in  an 
opera  house  consume  all  the  extra  moments  and 
the  flesh  and  blood  and  breath  control  of  the  men 
of  the  orchestra  will  not  permit  them  to  rehearse 
every  day  and  play  every  evening.  How  would  it 
be  possible  to  devote  a  week  to  the  preparation  of 
11  Trovatore?  And  yet  if  it  could  be  done  it  would 
be  found  that  the  result  would  repay  those  who  had 
done  it.  None  of  us  has  ever  heard  a  good  per- 
formance of  this  opera,  one  of  Verdi's  best,  al- 
though we  have  frequently  seen  pains  expended, 
even  if  wrongly,  on  Aida,  Otello,  and  Falstaff. 

Extraordinary  conductors  like  Arturo  Tosca- 
nini  and  Arthur  Nikisch,  brilliant  singing  actors 
like  Olive  Fremstad  and  Feodor  Chaliapine,  scene 
painters  like  Bakst  and  Roerich,  stage  directors 
like  Appia  and  Stanislawsky  all  exist  in  the  world 
but  they  do  not  exist  in  combination.  Sometimes 
a  great  conductor  can  lift  a  performance  to  such 
heights  that  details  —  important  details,  at  that 
—  are  forgotten  in  the  ensuing  pleasure ;  some- 
times a  single  singer,  Mary  Garden  in  Pelleas  et 
Mellsande  or  Marcella  Sembrich  in  La  Traviata 
(no  longer,  alas!)  can  make  us  forget  that  we  are 
in  the  theatre  at  all  and  we  overlook  the  shabby, 
[203] 


Interpretations 


inadequate,  or  utterly  wrong  scenery,  the  weakness 
of  the  supporting  cast,  the  shiftless  stage  direction, 
and  the  mixture  of  styles.  There  are  few  of  us, 
however,  who  can  say  that  we  have  seen  a  dozen 
really  remarkable  performances  of  opera,  consid- 
ering all  the  composer's  and  librettist's  intentions. 
Aside  from  the  scenery  the  performance  of  II  Bar- 
biere  di  Siviglia  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
with  Mme.  Sembrich,  and  Messrs.  Bonci,  Chalia- 
pine,  and  Campanari  lives  in  the  memory ;  Serge  de 
Diaghilew's  company  has  given  adequate  vocal  and 
histrionic  support  to  the  genius  of  Feodor  Chalia- 
pine  and  the  scenery  of  Bakst  and  Fedorowsky  in 
La  Khovanchina  and  Boris  Godunoiv;  and  the  Rus- 
sian production  of  Rimsky-Korsakow's  opera,  The 
Golden  Cock,  in  London  and  Paris,  in  which  the 
characters  were  impersonated  by  dancers  while  the 
music  was  rendered  by  singers,  was  a  delightfully 
successful  experiment.  There  have  been  wonder- 
ful performances,  in  recent  years,  of  Tristan  und 
Isolde  and  Gotterdammerung  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  conducted  by  Gustav  Mahler  and 
Arturo  Toscanini,  in  which  Mme.  Fremstad  ap- 
peared, but  the  tenors  in  every  instance,  to  say 
nothing  of  other  members  of  the  cast,  have  been 
unsatisfactory,  and  the  stage  decoration  has  been 
shabby  and  the  lighting  ineffective.  .  .  .  Pelleas 
[204] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

et  Melisande,  as  produced  at  the  Paris  Opera-Com- 
ique,  approached  perfection,  although  the  orches- 
tra might  have  been  improved  and  the  scenes 
painted  with  a  more  cymaphonous  effect.  The 
lighting  was  good.  The  New  York  decoration 
for  this  play  was  even  less  appropriate  but  the 
orchestra  here  was  better. 

In  Munich  (and  similar  attempts  at  restoration 
are  made  in  other  German  capitals)  we  have  the 
delightful  performances  of  Mozart  operas  during 
a  festival  week  at  the  tiny  Residenz  Theater.  The 
small  auditorium  brings  the  players  into  close  inti- 
macy with  the  public ;  a  revolving  stage  shifts  the 
succession  of  scenes  swiftly  towards  the  finales ; 
and  the  conductor  presides  at  a  harpsichord  over 
a  miniature  orchestra.  Wagner's  dramas  are 
given  as  well  as  he  knew  (and  Cosima  knows)  how 
at  the  Prinzregenten  Theatre  in  Munich  and  at  the 
festival  theatre  in  Bayreuth  ...  I  believe  that 
better  singing  actors  and  modern  taste  applied  to 
the  stage  could  improve  even  these  institutions, 
however,  better  though  they  may  be  than  the  best 
we  have  in  America.  At  least  there  is  an  attempt 
made  to  do  honour  to  the  works.  At  the  Scala  in 
Milan  and  at  some  other  Italian  theatres  the  rep- 
ertoire of  a  season  is  limited,  say  to  eight  operas. 
This  allows  the  director  to  engage  his  company 
[205] 


I  nterp  retations 


for  the  season  with  regard  for  the  demands  of  these 
special  works  and  it  also  permits  his  subordinates 
ample  time  for  the  necessary  rehearsals. 

There  have  been  few  attempts  made  at  "  styliza- 
tion  "  in  the  production  of  opera,  aside  from  the 
productions  of  the  Russians,  and  a  few  productions 
in  Germany  (I  do  not  know  if  Ludwig  Sievert's 
scenic  inventions  for  Parsifal  were  ever  produced 
at  the  Freiburg  Municipal  Theatre  for  which  they 
were  destined  in  1914),  although,  even  in  New 
York,  such  attempts  are  common  enough  in  the 
theatre  (the  productions  at  the  Century  [made  by 
Joseph  Urban],  the  Comedy  [where  the  Washing- 
ton Square  Players  are  installed]  and  the  Neigh- 
bourhood Playhouse  are  invariably  interesting). 
Louis  Sherwin  has  recently  told  us  in  a  brilliant 
article  that  the  best  modern  staging  in  New  York 
is  to  be  seen  in  musical  comedy.  In  1913  Jaques- 
Dalcroze  gave  performances  of  Gluck's  Orfeo  in 
the  great  hall  of  his  School  of  Eurythmics  at  Hel- 
lerau.  In  the  representation  of  this  piece  no  divi- 
sion was  made  between  stage  and  auditorium 
(Adolphe  Appia  was  one  of  the  producers  and  at 
present  he  is  entirely  concerned  with  this  problem, 
how  to  unite  spectator  and  actor).  Players  and 
spectators  were  in  the  same  light,  a  diffused  light 
resembling  daylight  without  visible  sun,  a  system 
[206] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

invented  by  A.  von  Salzmann.  "This  effect,"  ac- 
cording to  a  description  by  Frank  E.  Washburn 
Freund,  "  was  obtained  by  means  of  innumerable 
but  invisible  electric  lights  placed  behind  the  trans- 
parent covering  of  the  wall,  so  that  the  hall  seemed 
to  glow  with  light  instead  of  being  lit  from  an  ex- 
ternal source.  The  stage  itself  —  in  so  far  as  it 
can  be  called  a  stage  —  consisted  merely  of  a  plat- 
form divided  into  three  parts  and  connected  by  a 
flight  of  steps,  which  lent  themselves  splendidly  to 
effective  groupings  and  processions.  On  this  plat- 
form simple  pieces  of  furniture  necessary  to  the 
action  were  placed,  such  as  the  funeral  urn.  All 
realistic  decoration  was  thus  avoided,  and  even  the 
surroundings  were  merely  indicated;  for  example, 
the  impression  of  a  wood  was  suggested  by  long 
stripes,  the  vertical  lines  of  which  created  in  the 
mind  of  the  audience  an  impression  of  trees,  and 
tuned  their  thoughts  to  the  right  rhythm."  It 
may  be  added  that  Jaques-Dalcroze  placed  his 
singers  in  the  orchestra  so  that  the  characters  on 
the  stage  merely  enacted  their  parts.  Appia  was 
not  at  all  satisfied  with  this  production,  in  which 
he  worked  with  two  other  men.  The  lighting  (for 
which  von  Salzmann  was  entirely  responsible)  es- 
pecially disturbed  him.  Of  course  shadows  were 
impossible.  It  may  further  be  urged  against  it 
[207] 


Interpretations 


that  the  auditors,  many  of  them  in  shirt  waist  and 
skirt,  which  is  the  indispensable  uniform  of  a  Ger- 
man woman,  must  have  been  sadly  out  of  the  pic- 
ture of  which  they  formed  a  part.  The  experiment 
was  interesting  but  it  proved  to  be  only  an  experi- 
ment. 

Meyerhold  in  his  book,  "The  Theatre,"  thus  de- 
scribes his  production  of  Orfeo  at  the  Imperial 
Opera  in  Petrograd:  "We  divided  the  stage  into 
two  strictly  separated  parts :  the  front  part,  where 
there  was  no  painting  and  where  everything  was  ar- 
ranged with  textiles ;  and  the  back  part,  given  over 
to  the  dominion  of  painting.  Special  importance 
was  given  to  places  which  determined  the  level; 
for  the  connecting  passages  between  the  two  deter- 
mined the  positions  and  path  of  motion  of  the  var- 
ious characters.  Thus,  in  the  second  scene,  the 
path  of  Orpheus  to  Hades  lies  from  an  enormous 
height  downward,  while  on  both  sides,  in  front, 
there  are  two  large  rocky  projections.  With  such 
an  arrangement,  the  figure  of  Orpheus  does  not 
mingle  with  the  mass  of  the  Furies,  but  domi- 
nates them.  The  positions  of  the  two  large  rocky 
projections  on  both  sides  of  the  stage  make  it  im- 
possible to  mass  the  chorus  and  ballet  in  any  other 
way  than  in  the  form  of  two  groups  extending  up- 
wards from  the  two  side-scenes.  Thus  the  action 
[208] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

of  Orpheus  is  not  broken  up  in  a  series  of  episodes  ; 
rather,  these  are  synthetically  expressed  in  two 
struggling  movements :  the  movement  of  Orpheus 
rushing  downward,  on  one  hand ;  and  on  the  other, 
the  movement  of  the  Furies,  which  at  first  meet 
Orpheus  sternly,  but  finally  make  peace  with  him. 
Here  the  location  of  the  groups  is  strictly  deter- 
mined by  the  distribution  of  the  raised  surfaces, 
which  were  worked  out  by  the  artist  and  manager. 

"  The  chorus  in  Elysium  was  removed  behind  the 
side-scenes.  That  allowed  us  to  do  away  with  the 
usual  discord  between  the  chorus  and  ballet,  which 
as  yet  do  not  blend  on  the  stage.  If  the  chorus 
had  been  left  on  the  stage  it  would  have  been  no- 
ticed at  once  that  one  group  was  singing  while 
the  other  was  dancing,  whereas  the  homogeneous 
character  of  the  group  in  Elysium  (the  Happy 
Shades)  demands  that  the  plastic  expression  be  of 
one  kind. 

"  In  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act,  Love,  who 
has  just  brought  Eurydice  back  to  life,  leads  her 
and  Orpheus  to  the  fore-stage  in  front  of  the  pro- 
scenium arch  while  pronouncing  the  last  phrase  of 
his  recitative.  When  Orpheus,  Eurydice,  and 
Love,  step  forward  the  landscape  behind  them  is 
covered  by  the  dropping  of  the  main  curtain,  and 
the  actors  sing  the  concluding  trio  as  though  it 
[209] 


Interpretations 


were  a  concert  number.     During  the  singing  of 
the  trio,  the  scene  is  changed." 

There  is  a  remedy  for  conditions  as  they  exist  in 
New  York  —  in  fact  there  are  several  but  they  are 
expensive  and  drastic.  It  is  possible  that  in  time 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  may  outlive  its  use- 
fulness and  be  replaced.  Until  that  time  arrives 
it  may  be  suggested  that  a  smaller  theatre  might 
be  provided  for  certain  works  that  would  be  more 
effective  in  a  less  ample  auditorium.  Then  possi- 
bly such  singers  as  Mabel  Garrison,  whose  lovely 
voice  was  heard  to  advantage  in  Albert  Reiss's  spe- 
cial production  of  Mozart's  Schauspieldirector  at 
the  Empire  Theatre  (October,  1916),  might  have 
their  opportunity.  The  repertoire  of  the  parent 
house  might  in  itself  be  limited.  Do  you  not  imag- 
ine that  the  subscribers  would  prefer  hearing  a 
stirring  performance  twice  to  a  spiritless  repre- 
sentation once.  If  the  repertoire  comprised  twelve 
operas  these  would  suffice  for  a  subscription  season 
of  twenty-four  weeks,  each  opera  to  be  given  twice 
to  each  set  of  subscribers.  Limitation  of  the  rep- 
ertoire seems  one  of  the  essential  remedies.  Com- 
bine as  you  will  you  cannot  select  perfect  casts 
out  of  a  possible  hundred  singers  for  as  eclectic  a 
series  of  operas  as  that  which  comprises  the  usual 
repertoire  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  es- 
[210] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

pecially  to-day  when  fine  acting  is  as  necessary  to 
the  production  of  an  opera  as  fine  singing.  In 
some  operas  it  is  more  necessary,  and  it  must  not 
be  overlooked  that  some  of  the  most  famous  lyric 
artists  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  were  imperfect 
singers,  Mme.  Pasta  and  Pauline  Viardot,  for  ex- 
ample, and  Signer  Ronconi,  all  of  whom  were  su- 
perb histrions.  Nor  can  your  scene  painters  or 
your  stage  decorators  do  justice  to  or  give  variety 
to  so  large  a  repertoire  .  .  .  Even  an  ideal  stock 
company  could  not  be  expected  to  give  more  than 
decent  performances  of  Hamlet,  Charley's  Aunt, 
Man  and  Superman,  La  Course  du  Flambeau,  Han- 
nele,  and  Francesca  da  Rimini  in  a  single  week. 

Even  if  nothing  can  be  done  now,  and  I  do  not 
admit  that  the  case  is  so  hopeless,  when  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  is  rebuilt  why  not  have  it 
stand  for  the  best  in  operatic  art?  Why  not  an 
attempt  at  the  perfect  theatre?  Why  not  two 
theatres  under  one  roof?  The  smaller  auditorium 
would  serve  for  a  more  intimate  exploitation  of  the 
smaller  forms  of  operatic  art ;  operas  like  Manon 
and  Cost  Fan  Tutte,  La  Boheme  and  The  Bartered 
Bride  would  find  their  homes  here.  There  are  two 
such  auditoriums  in  the  famous  theatre  which  Pro- 
fessor Max  Littmann  designed  for  Stuttgart.  Let 
each  stage  be  provided  with  all  the  modern  appa- 


Interpretations 


ratus  for  lighting,  all  the  mechanical  appliances 
which  make  production  easier,  including,  of  course, 
the  revolving  stage,  without  which  even  the  changes 
in  the  Wagner  dramas  are  difficult  to  achieve.  It 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  possible  on  occasion  to  add 
an  apron  to  the  stage,  so  that  we  might  really  be  in 
touch  with  the  prima  donna  again,  receive  her  best 
from  our  midst,  so  to  speak. 

Once  these  mechanical  adjuncts  were  provided 
the  sailing  would  be  easy,  at  least  if  the  director  of 
the  theatre  approved  of  the  modern  stage  art,  an 
art  which  at  its  best  brings  out  the  secrets  of  the 
drama,  and  softens  the  rough  places.  The  deco- 
rations and  lights  should  provide  emphasis  to  the 
real  drama  and  they  should  also  serve  to  interest 
the  eye  when  the  invention  of  the  playwright  or 
that  of  the  composer  fails  .  .  .  All  scenery  for 
opera,  at  least  almost  all  scenery  for  opera,  cer- 
tainly all  Italian  scenery  (and  a  good  deal  of  the 
French)  since  the  days  of  Bibiena  in  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,  has  been  a  striving  after  the  archi- 
tectural .  .  .  First,  as  Gordon  Craig  cleverly 
points  out,  scenery  became  imitation  architecture ; 
later  it  became  imitation  artificial  architecture! 
For  literally  centuries  this  false  tradition  has  been 
followed,  degenerating  the  while.  Our  producers 
of  opera  know  nothing  of  the  distinction  between 
[212] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

"  presentation  "  and  "  representation,"  "  unity  of 
scene  "  and  "  unity  of  idea,"  "  subjective  "  and 
"  objective  reproduction,"  "  monodrama,"  "  styli- 
zation,"  "  conventionalism,"  "  naturalism ;  "  all  the 
glittering  phraseology  of  the  modern  artists  of  the 
theatre  is  to  them  as  the  argot  of  the  automobile 
world  to  an  aborigine  fresh  from  Africa  .  .  . 
Adolphe  Appia  and  other  modern  artists,  following 
Appia,  have  striven  to  make  the  actor  the  living 
emotional  part  of  the  setting ;  he  should  stand  out. 
.  .  .  Many  of  the  settings  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  have  this  fault,  that  they  submerge 
the  actor.  For  example  neither  Clarence  White- 
hill,  who  is  a  very  big  man,  nor  the  explosively 
dramatic  Mme.  Ober  could  hope  to  achieve  an  exist- 
ence on  the  stage  in  front  of  such  sets  as  were  pro- 
vided for  them  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  The 
shrieking  combination  of  purple,  blue,  and  pink,  in 
one  of  the  scenes  made  it  impossible  to  see  or  hear 
anything  else.  In  like  manner  the  setting  for  the 
King's  hut  in  Les  Pecheurs  de  Perles  was  so  littered 
with  assegai,  javelins,  and  batique  work  that  the 
actors  and  singers  quite  disappeared.  Joseph  Ur- 
ban devised  a  very  beautiful  setting  for  this  opera 
for  the  short-lived  Cleveland  Opera  Company. 
The  foreground  was  occupied  with  a  flight  of  steps 
leading  to  a  raised  platform,  guarded  at  either  side 
[213] 


I  nterp  relations 


by  a  column.  Behind  this  frame  each  picture  was 
inserted  ...  in  each  instance  a  back  drop  .  .  . 
The  very  bad  rococo  setting  of  the  first  act  of  Der 
Rosenkaralier  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  is 
another  case  in  point.  Mme.  Hempel's  beautiful 
blue  dressing  gown  faded  into  this  setting,  disap- 
peared in  it,  and  became  less  important  than  the 
many  hundred  painted  roses  with  which  it  was  em- 
bellished. Compare  this  setting  with  that  of  the 
second  act  of  Pierrot  the  Prodigal,  as  produced  by 
Winthrop  Ames  at  the  Booth  Theatre,  a  pale 
mauve  and  lace  concoction  which  furnished  a  per- 
fect boudoir  background  for  the  gestures  of  the 
pantomimists.  One  could  go  on  and  on. 

One  of  the  worst  faults  of  productions  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  is  the  effect  of  unmeas- 
ured space  that  the  stage  usually  presents.  For 
certain  scenes  this  is  an  advantage,  but  more  often 
than  not  a  good  deal  of  the  music  and  drama  are 
lost  in  a  desert.  Even  on  a  large  stage  it  is  possi- 
ble to  secure  an  effect  of  intimacy,  whether  by  the 
setting  or  by  the  lighting.  A  skillful  use  of  shad- 
ows would  make  us  believe  in  Rodolfo's  attic  or  in 
Marguerite's  garden.  Certain  scenes  are  built  out 
of  all  proportion  for  the  drama  they  are  supposed 
to  frame.  The  setting  for  the  second  act  of  Der 
Rosenkavalier,  for  example,  is  excellent  in  itself, 
[214] 


The    Problem    of    Style 

but  after  the  first  five  minutes  of  the  act,  the  space 
is  much  too  vast.  It  is  likewise  a  mistake  to  have 
important  characters  dressed  in  white  enact  inti- 
mate drama  against  a  white  background.  If  I 
were  asked  to  stage  this  scene  I  should  provide  a 
small  reception  room  in  the  first  plan  of  the  stage, 
opening  through  an  enormous  arch,  the  full 
width  of  the  stage,  to  the  hallway  behind. 
Once  Sophie  and  Octavian  were  alone,  the 
servitors  would  draw  a  green  or  black  curtain 
across  this  opening,  and  for  the  ensuing  scene 
the  attention  would  be  focused  where  it  be- 
longs instead  of  wandering  aimlessly  about  a  hall 
of  ample  size  for  a  performance  of  Mahler's  Sym- 
phony of  a  Thousand.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
present  system  of  cluttering  up  the  stage  with  a 
million  details  is  all  wrong  even  for  a  palace  hall  or 
a  public  square.  A  salient  feature  or  two  would 
suggest  what  is  needed  without  usurping  the  atten- 
tion. In  the  church  scene  of  Faust,  for  example,  a 
single  column,  lighted,  while  the  rest  of  the  scene 
remained  in  total  obscurity,  would  emphasize  the 
importance  of  Mephistopheles  and  Marguerite. 
"  Stage  settings,"  says  Georg  Fuchs,  "  are  like 
families :  the  happiest  are  those  of  which  we  speak 
the  least." 

All  over  the  world  —  even  in  America  —  great 
[215] 


Interpretations 


stage  directors  have  grown  up  in  the  theatre  (al- 
though seldom  in  the  opera  house),  working  hand 
and  hand  with  the  playwright  and  the  decorator  to 
make  everything  that  can  be  made  of  the  material 
in  hand  ...  At  Hellerau  Jaques-Dalcroze,  with 
the  priceless  assistance  of  Adolphe  Appia,  has,  un- 
der special  conditions,  given  performances  of 
Gluck's  Orfeo  and  other  works  ;  Stanislawsky's  the- 
atre in  Moscow  is  the  wonder  of  the  age ;  in  Petro- 
grad  Everei'now  and  Meyerhold  have  done  some  re- 
markable things ;  in  Berlin  there  is  Reinhardt ;  in 
Buda-Pesth  Hevesi  ...  Is  there  a  man  in  the 
world  who  understands  the  art  of  the  stage  more 
completely  than  Fokine,  who  devised  the  remark- 
able and  highly  original  action  of  several  of  the 
best  of  the  Russian  Ballets?  Nijinsky  has  done 
such  things  with  Till  Eulenspiegel  as  to  suggest  to 
any  sensible  man  that  he  might  perform  similar 
wonders  with  Die  Meister 'singer  and  his  production 
of  L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune  shows  his  versatility 
as  a  producer  .  .  .  Yes,  there  are  capable  stage 
directors,  turn  where  you  will  you  can  find  them. 
Look  at  what  the  Washington  Square  Players  have 
done.  Did  you  see  Philip  Moeller's  production  of 
The  Life  of  Man?  How  great  an  effect  he  got 
with  how  small  means !  .  .  .  There  may  be  twenty 
young  men  in  New  York  capable  of  improving  con- 
[216] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

ditions  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  .  .  . 
All  that  is  required  is  a  little  daring  ingenuity  .  .  . 
A  young  man  or  two  to  suggest  that  Wagner  be 
given  with  Appia's  scenery  and  lighting  directions 
(the  love  scene  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  on  a  pitch 
dark  stage,  for  instance)  ;  to  introduce  all  the  fra- 
grant charm  of  the  thirties  into  a  performance  of 
La  Sonnambula,  so  that  a  modern  interpreter  of 
the  role  might  be  surrounded  by  all  the  physical 
advantages  which  enhanced  the  performance  of 
Jenny  Lind ;  to  draw  a  veil  of  fine  gauze  over  the 
scenes  of  Pelleas  et  Melisande  (this  was  done  in 
Mrs.  Campbell's  production)  so  that  Debussy's  ly- 
ric drama  might  be  still  more  vague  and  mystic; 
to  read  Meilhac  and  Halevy's  book  for  Carmen 
before  ordering  the  scenery  for  it  so  that  the  real- 
istic acting  of  the  heroine  might  find  some  logical 
support  in  the  stage  setting;  to  reveal  the  melo- 
dramatic intensity  of  Trovatore,  the  Viennese 
charm  of  Der  Rosenkavalier,  the  fragrant  bouquet 
of  Manon,  the  exoticism  of  Salome  and  the  horror 
of  EleJctra. 

Or  he  might  make  curious  experiments  to  break 
the  stolid  monotony  of  the  present  system,  in 
which  Gotterdammerung,  Madama  Butterfly,  and 
Faust  are  all  painted  and  produced  in  precisely 
the  same  stupid  manner.  For  example  he  might 
[217] 


Interpretations 


imitate  the  Russians'  production  of  Rimsky-Kor- 
sakow's  The  Golden  Cock,  given  with  two  casts, 
one  to  sing  and  one  to  act;  or  he  might  follow 
the  example  of  Veronese  and  other  Venetian  paint- 
ers of  Bible  scenes  and  put  all  the  characters  of 
say  Faust  into  modern  clothes ;  or  he  might  reverse 
the  idea  and  dress  all  the  characters  of  Fedora  in 
Russian  costumes  of  the  time  of  Ivan  the  Terrible ; 
he  might  present  a  whole  opera  against  flat  drops 
close  to  the  footlights,  after  the  manner  of  Meyer- 
hold's  production  of  the  Maeterlinck  plays;  he 
might  do  this  opera  after  the  fashion  of  Aubrey 
Beardsley,  that  one  in  the  style  of  Albrecht  Diirer ; 
or  he  might  follow  John  Palmer's  excellent  advice 
to  dress  the  opera  "  decently  and  inconspicuously." 
Heaven  knows  this  would  be  a  novelty.  One  of  the 
first  duties  of  this  young  man  would  be  to  put  a 
ban  on  conventional,  meaningless,  routine  gesture. 
But  in  whatever  he  would  do  he  would  display  im- 
agination ...  I  shouldn't  wonder,  if  some  such 
experiment  were  made,  that  people  of  fashion  who 
now  make  it  a  point  to  go  to  the  opera,  would  be 
hard  pressed  to  secure  their  seats,  because  their 
ranks  would  be  swelled  by  people  of  brains  and 
ideas,  who  might  find  a  certain  pleasurable  excite- 
ment in  making  excursions  into  this  new  opera 
house. 

[218] 


The     Problem    of     Style 

Of  course  all  these  improvements  would  be  easier 
of  accomplishment  if  such  a  thing  existed  as  Amer- 
ican opera  .  .  .  The  few  experiments  in  this  line 
cannot  be  considered  as  potent  enough  to  encour- 
age a  new  theory  of  stage  art.  If,  however,  a  se- 
ries of  works  in  our  language  by  our  composers 
were  to  be  produced  each  season  the  stimulus  to 
American  endeavour  to  make  suitable  productions 
for  these  works  should  be  very  great.  The  result 
would  rise  spontaneously  out  of  the  necessity.  Vi- 
brant and  living  music  requires  novelty  of  expres- 
sion. At  present  we  can  but  look  towards  the  past 
or  beyond  the  seas  for  our  material,  and  so  long 
as  that  is  true  it  will  be  more  difficult  to  give  the 
American  artist  of  the  theatre  his  opportunity. 

But  why,  in  any  case,  take  all  this  trouble,  may 
be  the  managerial  query,  for  a  public  that  doesn't 
know  any  better,  a  public  which  has  an  instinctive 
distrust  and  dislike  for  any  kind  of  innovation? 
Why  educate  this  public  up  to  a  standard  it  doesn't 
expect  and  doesn't  want,  only  to  find  that  when  it 
has  acquired  a  taste  for  this  high  standard  it  will 
accept  nothing  else?  Against  this  train  of  reason- 
ing there  is,  of  course,  no  argument.  Only  if  di- 
rectors do  argue  thus  let  us  have  no  more  talk  of 
opera  as  an  art.  Let  us  speak  simply  of  the  busi- 
ness of  opera  giving  and  refer  to  managers  and 
[219] 


Interpretations 


performers  as  trades  people.  I'm  afraid  I'm  one 
of  the  few  who  take  the  production  of  opera  seri- 
ously. Isn't  it  silly  of  me? 

November  29 ,1916. 


[220] 


Notes     on     the    Armide 
of     Gluck 


Notes  on  the  Armide 
of  Gluck 


RICHARD  WAGNER,  like  many  another 
great  man,  took  what  he  wanted  where  he 
found  it.  Everyone  has  heard  the  story 
of  his  remark  to  his  father-in-law  when  that  august 
musician  first  listened  to  Die  Walkiire:  "You 
will  recognize  this  theme,  Papa  Liszt?  "  The  mo~ 
t'w  in  question  occurs  when  Sieglinde  sings :  Kehrte 
der  Vater  nun  heim.  Liszt  had  used  the  tune  at 
the  beginning  of  his  Faust  symphony.  Not  long 
ago,  in  playing  over  Schumann's  Kinderscenen,  I 
discovered  Briinnhilde's  magic  slumber  music,  ex- 
actly as  it  appears  in  the  music  drama,  in  the 
piece  pertinently  called  Kind  im  Einschlummern. 
The  chorus  which  greets  the  arrival  of  Lohengrin, 
Wie  fasst  uns  selig  susses  Grauen  sends  the  mem- 
ory back  to  the  tenor  solo  and  chorus  at  the  be- 
ginning of  Mendelssohn's  Walpurgis  Nacht,  while 
clear  recollections  of  certain  phrases  in  Der  Frei- 
schiitz  are  conjured  up  by  a  passage  in  the  Tann- 
hauser  march.  When  Weber's  EuryantTie  was  re- 
vived recently  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  it 
had  the  appearance  of  an  old  friend,  although  com- 
paratively few  in  the  first  night  audience  had  heard 


Interpretations 


the  opera  before.  One  recognized  tunes,  charac- 
ters, scenes,  because  Wagner  had  found  them  all 
good  enough  to  use  in  Tannhduser  and  Lohengrin. 
But,  at  least,  you  will  object,  he  invented  the  music 
drama.  That,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  is  just 
what  he  did  not  do,  as  any  one  may  see  for  himself 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  glance  over  the  scores 
of  the  Chevalier  Gluck  and  to  read  the  preface  to 
Alceste. 

Gluck's  reform  of  the  opera  was  gradual; 
Orphee  (in  its  French  version),  Alceste,  and 
Iphigenie  en  Aulide,  all  of  which  antedate  Armide, 
are  replete  with  indications  of  what  was  to  come; 
but  Armide,  it  seems  to  me,  is,  in  intention  at  least, 
almost  the  music  drama,  as  we  use  the  term  to-day. 
The  very  nature  of  the  characters  and  scenes  con- 
firms my  amiable  suspicion  regarding  Wagner. 

What  is  the  character  of  Armide  herself  but  that 
of  a  wilful  Kundry?  Her  father,  Hidraot,  is  cer- 
tainly the  counterpart  of  Klingsor.  Renaud,  too, 
who  will  have  none  of  her,  we  seem  to  have  seen 
since  as  Parsifal.  Ubalde  and  the  Danish  Knight 
will  be  familiar  figures  to  any  one  who  has  attended 
a  performance  of  Lohengrin.  The  scene  of  the 
Naiad  certainly  suggests  the  scene  between  Sieg- 
fried and  the  Rhine  maidens  in  the  third  act  of  Die 
Gotterdammerung  and  the  scene  at  the  end  of  the 
[224] 


The    A rmid e    of     Gluck 

work,  in  which  Armide  sets  fire  to  her  palace  and 
flies  away  on  a  hippograff,  may  have  been  in  Wag' 
ner's  mind  when  he  penned  the  conclusion  to  the 
last  Ring  drama  in  which  Briinnhilde  on  her  horse 
mounts  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  hero  while  the  Gib- 
ichs'  palace  is  destroyed  by  flames.  As  if  to  give 
us  the  clue  to  the  whole  matter  the  overture  begins 
with  exactly  the  same  theme,  note  for  note,  as  that 
which  opens  the  prelude  of  Die  Meistersinger. 
More  subtle  evidence  of  Wagner's  debt  to  Gluck 
is  to  be  found  in  the  conclusion  of  the  final  act,  in 
which  one  theme,  in  recitative  form,  is  dramatically 
extolled  by  voice  and  orchestra  in  a  manner  which 
foreshadows  exactly  the  later  love  death  of  Isolde 
and  Briinnhilde's  self  immolation.  That  Wagner 
was  familiar  with  the  Gluck  scores  is  not  in  doubt. 
He  made  a  concert  ending  for  the  overture  to 
Iphigenie  en  Aulide  (because  he  was  displeased 
with  the  one  which  Mozart  had  already  made,  as  he 
signified  with  reasons  in  an  article  published  in  the 
"Neue  Zeitschrift  fur  Musik,"  July  1,  1854;  you 
may  read  it  in  the  third  volume  of  William  Ashton 
Ellis's  translation  of  Wagner's  prose  works),  and 
somewhere  in  his  writings  he  gives  Gluck  the  credit 
for  the  invention  of  the  leit-motiv.  "With  what 
poignant  simplicity,  with  what  truth  has  Gluck 
characterized  by  music  the  two  elements  of  the  con- 
[225] 


Interpretations 


flict,"  he  writes,  concerning  the  overture  to  Iphi- 
genie  en  Aulide.  "  In  the  beginning  one  recog- 
nizes in  the  marvellous  vigour  of  the  principal 
theme,  with  its  weight  of  brass,  a  compact  mass 
concentrated  on  a  unique  interest;  then,  in  the 
theme  which  follows,  the  opposed  and  individual  in- 
terest of  the  victim  moves  us  to  tenderness."  (In- 
deed, in  the  article  in  the  "  Neue  Zeitschrift "  he 
indicates  four  themes  in  this  overture,  each  of 
which  he  calls  by  a  name.) 

But  it  is  for  more  essential  reasons  that  one 
names  Gluck  the  father  of  the  music  drama  as  we 
understand  it  to-day.  In  Armide  he  does  away 
with  recitative  accompanied  by  the  clavichord. 
The  music  of  this  work  forms  a  continuous  whole, 
made  up,  to  be  sure,  of  distinguishable  pieces  and 
melodies,  separated  by  recitatives ;  but  these  reci- 
tatives, always  accompanied  by  the  orchestra,  are 
the  dramatic  backbone  of  the  drama.  Nor  is  there 
repetition  of  words,  a  favourite  device  of  opera 
composers  of  the  period  (and  of  periods  to  follow), 
who  often  repeated  a  phrase  several  times  in  order 
to  effectively  melodize  over  it.  "  I  have  tried," 
says  Gluck  himself,  "  to  be  more  of  a  painter  and 
poet  in  Armide  than  musician."  More  of  a  painter 
and  poet  than  musician !  Might  not  Wagner  have 
said  this?  He  was  painter  and  poet  and  musician. 
[226] 


The     Armide     of     Gluck 

Wagner,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  wrote  von  Billow: 
"  One  thing  is  certain :  I  am  not  a  musician." 

The  preface  to  Alceste  contains  so  adequate  a 
statement  of  Gluck's  intentions  that  I  cannot  do 
better  than  transcribe  the  meat  of  that  admirable 
document  here  (the  translation  is  that  which  ap- 
pears in  Grove's  Dictionary)  : 

"  When  I  undertook  to  set  the  opera  of  Alceste 
to  music,  I  resolved  to  avoid  all  those  abuses  which 
had  crept  into  Italian  opera  through  the  mistaken 
vanity  of  singers  and  the  unwise  compliance  of 
composers,  and  which  had  rendered  it  wearisome 
and  ridiculous,  instead  of  being,  as  it  once  was,  the 
grandest  and  most  imposing  stage  of  modern  times. 
I  endeavoured  to  reduce  music  to  its  proper  func- 
tion, that  of  seconding  poetry  by  enforcing  the 
expression  of  the  sentiment,  and  the  interest  of  the 
situations,  without  interrupting  the  action,  or 
weakening  it  by  superfluous  ornament.  My  idea 
was  that  the  relation  of  music  to  poetry  was  much 
the  same  as  that  of  harmonious  colouring  and  well- 
disposed  light  and  shade  to  an  accurate  drawing, 
which  animates  the  figures  without  altering  their 
outlines.  I  have  therefore  been  very  careful  not 
to  interrupt  a  singer  in  the  heat  of  a  dialogue  in 
order  to  introduce  a  tedious  ritornelle,  nor  to  stop 
him  in  the  middle  of  a  piece  either  for  the  purpose 
[227] 


I  nterp  relations 


of  displaying  the  flexibility  of  his  voice  on  some 
favourable  vowel,  or  that  the  orchestra  might  give 
him  time  to  take  breath  before  a  long-sustained 
note. 

"  Furthermore,  I  have  not  thought  it  right  to 
hurry  through  the  second  part  of  a  song,  if  the 
words  happened  to  be  the  most  important  of  the 
whole,  in  order  to  repeat  the  first  part  regularly 
four  times  over ;  or  to  finish  the  air  where  the  sense 
does  not  end  in  order  to  allow  the  singer  to  ex- 
hibit his  power  of  varying  the  passage  at  pleasure. 
In  fact  my  object  was  to  put  an  end  to  abuses 
against  which  good  taste  and  good  sense  have  long 
protested  in  vain. 

"  My  idea  was  that  the  overture  ought  to  in- 
dicate the  subject  and  prepare  the  spectators  for 
the  character  of  the  piece  they  are  about  to  see; 
that  the  instruments  ought  to  be  introduced  in  pro- 
portion to  the  degree  of  interest  and  passion  in  the 
words ;  and  that  it  was  necessary  above  all  to  avoid 
making  too  great  a  disparity  between  the  recitative 
and  the  air  of  a  dialogue,  so  as  not  to  break  the 
sense  of  a  period  or  awkwardly  interrupt  the 
movement  and  animation  of  a  scene.  I  also 
thought  that  my  chief  endeavour  should  be  to  at- 
tain a  grand  simplicity  and  consequently  I  have 
avoided  making  a  parade  of  difficulties  at  the  ex- 
[228] 


The    Armide    of     Gluck 

pense  of  clearness ;  I  have  set  no  value  on  novelty 
as  such,  unless  it  was  naturally  suggested  by  the 
situation  and  suited  to  the  expression ;  in  short 
there  was  no  rule  which  I  did  not  consider  myself 
bound  to  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  effect." 

Gluck  had  indeed  determined  to  unite  the  arts  of 
speech,  painting,  and  music  in  the  same  work  long 
before  Wagner  attempted  to  do  so.  He  even  went 
further  (following,  it  is  true,  a  custom  of  the  pe- 
riod) and  made  the  art  of  the  dance  an  essential 
part  of  his  scheme.  Any  adequate  production  of 
Armide  or  Iphigenie  en  Aulide  cannot  be  made 
without  taking  this  fact  into  account.  The  ballet 
requires  as  much  attention  as  the  orchestra  or  the 
singers.  The  ballet,  in  fact,  in  these  music  dramas 
and  in  Orphee  is  an  integral  part  of  the  action.  It 
may  be  said  that  the  inadequate  dancing  in  the 
production  of  Armide  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  in  New  York  militated  against  the  perma- 
nent success  of  the  work  there,  in  spite  of  Mme. 
Fremstad's  remarkable  performance  of  the  title 
part  and  Mr.  Caruso's  lovely  singing  (the  best  he 
has  done  here)  of  the  music  of  Renaud. 

Armide  served  to  open  the  New  York  opera  sea- 
son of  1910—11.  The  exact  date  of  the  perform- 
ance (the  first  in  America)  was  November  14, 1910. 
This  reads  like  a  simple  enough  statement  unless 
[229] 


I  nterp  relations 


one  remembers  that  Armide  was  produced  at  the 
Academic  Royale  de  Musique  in  Paris  on  Septem- 
ber 23,  1777.  In  other  words  this  opera,  which 
by  many  is  considered  the  masterpiece  of  its  com- 
poser, had  to  wait  for  over  a  century  and  a  quarter 
for  a  hearing  on  these  shores.  The  year  1777  was 
history-making  for  the  United  States,  but  Marie 
Antoinette  wrote  a  friend,  shortly  after  the  pro- 
duction of  Armide,  that  no  one  in  Paris  was  think- 
ing any  more  about  America.  Everybody  was  dis- 
cussing Gluck's  new  opera.  Why  was  the  New 
York  production  so  belated?  There  were  many 
reasons :  the  Gluck  renaissance  in  Europe  is  of  com- 
paratively recent  date.  Armide  has  been  per- 
formed recently  in  London;  Paris  has  seen  many 
revivals  of  it;  several  German  cities  and  Brussels 
have  produced  it.  A  decade  ago  both  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  and  Heinrich  Conried  promised  Armide 
to  New  York,  but  the  promises  were  not  kept. 
The  Metropolitan  production  was  made  after  Mr. 
Conried's  death,  by  Giulio  Gatti-Casazza  and 
Arturo  Toscanini. 

H.  T.  Parker,  in  an  article  which  appeared  in 
the  "Boston  Transcript"  in  1906,  outlines  a  few 
of  the  reasons  why  an  impresario  might  not  face 
a  production  of  Armide  with  equanimity: 

"  There  are  thirteen  important  parts  in  Armide 
[230] 


The     A  rmid e     of     Gluck 

in  the  shortened  version  used  in  the  recent  Euro- 
pean revivals.  Except  Armide  herself  not  one  is 
a  star  part ;  yet  every  one,  if  the  opera  is  to  keep 
its  charm,  must  be  sung  with  qualities  of  voice,  ar- 
tistry, imagination,  and  restraint  that  are  rare 
among  our  generation  of  singers,  major  or  minor. 
In  Gluck's  day  two  tenors  in  a  single  opera  was  a 
trifling  demand  for  a  composer  to  make.  Outside 
Wagner  it  alarms  the  modern  manager  when  both 
these  tenors  have  considerable  parts.  Again 
Armide  requires  eight  different  settings  —  an  Ori- 
ental palace,  enchanted  glades  and  gardens,  the 
mouth  of  Hades,  and  sombre  and  fantastic  no- 
wheres.  A  flowery  couch  that  bears  Armide  and 
her  knight  through  the  air  and  the  enchantress's 
chariot,  likewise  for  aerial  journeys,  are  incidental 
pieces  of  machinery.  Above  all,  in  five  of  the  eight 
scenes,  a  ballet  appears,  not  for  ornamental 
dances,  or  showy  spectacle,  but  for  intimate  and 
delicate  illustration  of  the  situation  and  the 
music." 

When  the  work  was  to  be  presented  in  Paris 
Gluck  wrote  his  friend  De  Roullet  that  he  would 
let  the  Opera  have  it  only  on  certain  conditions, 
of  which  the  principal  ones  were  that  he  should 
have  at  least  two  months  for  preparatory  study, 
that  he  could  do  what  he  pleased  at  rehearsals,  and 
[231  ] 


Interpretations 


that  there  should  be  no  understudies:  the  parts 
should  be  sung  by  the  first  artists. 

"  Unless  these  conditions  are  acceded  to,"  he 
wrote,  "  I  shall  keep  Armide  for  my  pleasure,"  and 
he  terminated  the  letter  with  a  supreme  phrase: 
"  I  have  written  music  which  will  never  grow  old." 

The  Academic  Royale  very  sensibly  let  the  com- 
poser have  his  way  about  rehearsals  and  singers 
and  the  work  was  produced  there.  It  was  revived 
in  1805,  in  1811,  and  again  in  1825.  Later  per- 
formances have  been  rare  until  within  the  last  few 
years.  F.  A.  Gevaert,  the  Director  of  the  Con- 
servatory of  Brussels,  who  died  in  1908,  has  been 
largely  responsible  for  the  renewed  interest  in  this 
great  composer.  In  his  preface  to  Armide  he  re- 
lates an  interesting  incident  in  connection  with  the 
projected  attempt  to  perform  the  opera  in  Paris 
in  1870.  It  seems  that  in  1858,  when  Meyerbeer 
was  throned  without  a  rival  at  the  Paris  Opera,  an 
event  occurred  which  caused  a  sensation  in  the  mu- 
sical world  —  the  publication  in  the  "Revue  Con- 
temporaine"  of  a  study  of  Armide  signed  by  the 
name  of  one  of  the  highest  personages  in  France. 
It  again  became  the  fashion  to  praise  the  work  of 
Gluck.  The  act  of  Hate  was  played  and  sung  at 
one  of  the  concerts  of  the  Societe  des  Concerts,  and 
the  piece  itself  was  inscribed  in  the  list  of  lyric 
[232] 


The    Armide    of     Gluck 

dramas  to  be  performed  at  the  Opera.  However, 
as  often  happens  in  such  matters,  the  director  did 
not  keep  his  promise  in  spite  of  the  example  of  the 
enormous  success  of  the  revival  of  Orphee  at  the 
Theatre  Lyrique  in  1859  when  Mme.  Pauline  Viar- 
dot  sang  the  title  part. 

Finally  Emile  Perrin,  who  became  director  of  the 
Opera  in  1862,  took  the  matter  to  heart.  In  1866 
he  asked  Gevaert  to  become  general  director  of 
music  in  the  theatre.  Knowing  Gevaert  to  be  a 
fervent  admirer  of  Gluck,  for  he  had  studied  the 
five  French  works  of  the  composer  since  his  youth, 
Perrin  often  asked  him  to  play  the  score  of  Armide 
on  the  piano.  In  1868  Perrin  decided  to  prepare 
the  work  for  production  during  the  winter  of  1870- 
71.  He  went  to  the  most  extraordinary  pains 
about  the  scenery,  costumes,  and  machinery,  and 
he  sent  to  St.  Petersburg  for  a  ballet  master.  He 
entrusted  the  principal  roles  to  the  first  artists  of 
the  Opera  whose  repertoire  at  this  period  embraced 
works  by  Halevy,  Meyerbeer,  and  Rossini.  He  al- 
lotted Armide  to  Mme.  Sasse ;  Hate  to  Mme.  Guey- 
mard ;  Renaud  to  Villaret ;  and  Hidraot  to  Devo- 
yod.  The  fourth  act,  however,  in  which  none  of 
the  principal  characters  of  the  piece  appears,  he 
did  not  cast  at  once.  He  recognized  this  act  as  the 
most  dangerous  point  in  his  enterprise. 
[233] 


Interpretations 


"  To  present  to  the  public  toward  the  end  of 
the  evening  an  entire  act  sung  by  secondary  artists 
is  to  run  a  chance  of  failure,"  he  said.  "  On  the 
other  hand  to  cut  three-quarters  of  the  act,  as  one 
has  done  at  many  of  the  revivals  of  Armide  is  to 
discredit  in  advance  the  work  which  one  has  pre- 
tended to  honour.  Well,  I  will  have  this  act,  which 
is  a  veritable  musical  intermezzo,  sung  by  the  stars 
of  the  troupe,  by  the  artists  who  actually  have  the 
highest  standing  with  the  public.  Faure  will  sing 
Ubalde,  Miss  Nilsson  will  sing  Lucinde  (both  of 
whom  were  at  that  moment  having  the  greatest 
success  in  Hamlet),  Mme.  Carvalho  (who  created 
the  part  of  Marguerite  in  Faust)  will  take  the  part 
of  Melisse,  and  Colin  (a  young  tenor  who  had  just 
sung  the  part  of  Raoul  in  Les  Huguenots  with  suc- 
cess) will  play  the  part  of  the  Danish  Knight.  As 
this  act  may  be  detached  from  the  rest  of  the 
piece  we  will  rehearse  it  separately." 

This  splendid  idea  of  Perrin's,  however,  was 
never  to  be  carried  out.  Ten  days  before  the  date 
set  for  the  opening  performance  war  was  declared 
between  France  and  Germany  and  Armide  was  sent 
to  the  storehouse.  It  was  not  until  1905  (twenty- 
five  years  later !)  that  the  music  drama  finally  ap- 
peared on  the  affiches  of  the  Opera  when  Mme. 
Breval  enacted  the  title  part;  Mr.  Delmas  sang 
[234] 


The    Armide    of     Gluck 

Hidraot ;  Mr.  Affre,  Renaud ;  Mile.  Alice  Verlet,  a 
Naiad;  Mile  Feart,  Hate;  Mr.  Gilly,  Ubalde  (the 
part  which  he  sang  in  New  York)  ;  and  Mr.  Scar- 
amberg  the  Danish  Knight.  Since  then  Armide 
has  never  been  long  absent  from  the  repertoire  of 
the  Opera.  I  have  heard  Mme.  Litvinne  there  in 
the  title  part,  and  Mraes.  Borgo  and  Chenal  have 
also  appeared  in  it.  It  was  after  the  1905  per- 
formance that  Jean  Marnold  launched  his  attack 
on  this  "  oeuvre  batarde, —  ballet-heroi'co-dramat- 
ico-feerique." 

Quinault  wrote  the  tragedy  of  Armide  after  an 
episode  to  be  found  in  Tasso's  "  Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered." Quinault's  book  was  originally  set  by  Lulli 
and  first  represented  in  Paris  in  1686.  It  was  re- 
vived in  1703,  1713,  1724,  1746,  1761,  and  1764. 
Gluck's  first  work  for  the  Paris  Opera  was  Iphi- 
genie  en  Aulide.  Later  he  arranged  Alceste  and 
Orphee  for  presentation  at  that  theatre  and  wrote 
some  smaller  pieces  for  performance  at  Versailles 
to  please  Marie  Antoinette.  In  composing  Armide 
Gluck  followed  the  original  book  with  slight  alter- 
ations, in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  as  Gevaert  says, 
the  poetic  form  of  the  text,  excellent  for  the  reci- 
tative in  vogue  in  Lulli's  time,  lends  itself  as  little 
as  possible  to  purely  musical  voice  writing,  on  ac- 
count of  the  melange  of  different  metres  and  the 
[235] 


Inter p  relations 


irregular  return  of  the  rhyme.  Gluck  might  eas- 
ily have  altered  the  verses  and  omitted  some  of  the 
prolixities  of  the  plot,  as  had  been  done  when  Lulli's 
opera  was  revived,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  wish  to, 
counting  on  the  resources  of  his  art  to  sustain  the 
attention  of  the  auditor  in  the  moments  when  the 
action  slackened,  or  indeed,  ceased  altogether. 
The  lack  of  symmetry  in  the  verses  of  Quinault  the 
composer  found  altogether  to  his  liking  and  pro- 
posed to  draw  from  it  some  entirely  new  effects. 
In  consequence  he  resolved  to  set  the  poem  of  1686 
from  the  first  to  the  last  verse,  with  the  exception 
of  the  prologue,  to  music.  The  only  modification 
that  he  permitted  himself  was  an  original  ter- 
mination to  the  terrible  scene  of  the  third  act, 
which  ends,  in  Quinault's  play,  with  Hate  returning 
to  her  cavern,  after  having  abandoned  Armide  to 
her  fate,  with  four  added  verses : 

O  del!  quelle  horrible  menace! 

Je  fremis,  tout  mon  sang  se  glace! 

Amour!    Puissant  Amour!  viens  calmer  mon  effroie, 

Et  prends  pitie  d'un  coeur  qui  s'abandonne  a  tot! 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  superiority  of  Gluck's 

work  to  Lulli's  it  is  only  necessary  to  compare  the 

two  settings  of  Armide's  arioso,  Enfin,  il  est  en 

ma  puissance.     Twenty  years  before  Gluck  com- 

[236] 


The    Armide    of     Gluck 

posed  Armide  J.  J.  Rousseau  had  written  an  ar- 
ticle about  the  ridiculous  weakness  of  Lulli's  set- 
ting of  these  words,  the  unsuitability  of  the  mu- 
sical treatment. 

All  the  later  works  of  Gluck  were  enriched  by 
many  numbers  which  had  done  service  in  operas 
he  had  written  in  earlier  days,  which  were  quickly 
forgotten  then,  and  have  been  entirely  forgotten 
to-day,  except  by  the  compilers  of  musical  biogra- 
phies and  the  makers  of  thematic  catalogues. 
Wotquenne,  in  his  thematic  catalogue  of  the  works 
of  Gluck,  indicates  what  melodies  in  Armide  are 
second-hand,  so  to  speak.  The  overture,  it  seems, 
was  originally  employed  for  Telemacco  (1765)  and 
was  again  used  before  Feste  d' Apollo  (1769). 
The  Dance  of  the  Furies  and  the  Sicilienne  had 
previously  done  duty  in  the  ballet  Don  Juan.  The 
other  numbers  which  have  been  used  before  have 
been  very  much  modified  in  their  new  positions.  It 
may  be  noted  that  the  entire  scene  of  Hate  is  little 
more  than  a  mosaic  of  various  themes  from  earlier 
operas  of  Gluck.  Armide's  appeal  to  Love  at  the 
end  of  the  third  act  is  accompanied  by  a  rhythm  in 
the  second  violins  which  closely  resembles  a  pass- 
age in  Paride  ed  Elena.  Julien  Tiersot  has  an  in- 
genious theory  to  account  for  these  self-borrow- 
ings: 

[237] 


Interp  retations 


"  Certain  scenes  in  Armide  belonged  to  the  or- 
der of  ideas  which  in  other  times  had  already  in- 
terested Gluck.  In  his  youth  he  had  depicted  mu- 
sically many  scenes  of  invocation  and  evocation. 
Certain  figures,  certain  rhythms,  certain  sonori- 
ties, had  imposed  themselves  upon  him  in  this  con- 
nection and  he  had  already  made  use  of  them  in 
many  of  his  operas.  He  found  himself  thus  on 
familiar  ground  when  he  had  to  put  to  music  the 
duet  by  which  Armide  and  Hidraot  evoke  the  spir- 
its, and  all  the  scene  with  Hate." 

I  can  never  glance  into  the  score  of  this  remark- 
able work,  or  hear  it  performed,  however  indiffer- 
ently, without  feeling  a  very  sincere  emotion.  The 
melodies  of  Gluck's  immediate  successors  charm 
one;  Mozart  more  than  charms,  for  he  succeeded 
in  painting  the  characteristics  of  his  personages 
in  tone,  but  even  in  Mozart's  most  dramatic  score 
there  lies  no  such  clear  indication  of  the  way  of  the 
modern  music  drama  as  may  be  found  in  Armide 
on  almost  every  page.  I  do  not  dwell  on  the  over- 
ture, for  that  to  me  is  but  a  futile  preparation  for 
the  drama  for  which,  after  all,  it  was  not  written. 
But  from  the  rise  of  the  first  curtain  I  can  only 
follow  the  progress  of  the  work  with  increasing  ad- 
miration. The  pride  and  despair  expressed  in  Ar- 
mide's  opening  scene  are  vastly  more  successful 
[238] 


The    A  rmid  e    of     Gluck 

than  the  overture  in  evoking  the  proper  atmos- 
phere, but  it  is  with  the  entrance  and  sudden  death 
of  Aronte,  after  his  short  announcement,  that  the 
real  drama  begins,  and  it  is  with  Armide's  excla- 
mation, 0  del!  cest  Renaud!  that  music  drama  be- 
comes an  established  fact  and  not  a  theory.  The 
finale  of  the  first  act  is  a  whirlwind  and  should  be 
treated  as  such  in  performance.  The  second  act 
is  one  of  violent  contrasts:  pastoral  scenes  alter- 
nate with  stormy  invocations.  So,  by  means  of  his 
magical  background,  Gluck  emphasizes  the  con- 
trasts in  his  heroine's  nature,  in  which  love  of  Re- 
naud is  struggling  with  her  hatred  of  him  as  the 
enemy  of  her  country.  Love  conquers  and  in  Ar- 
mide's  appeal  to  the  spirits  of  the  air  to  bear  her 
and  her  lover  away  one  may  find  as  noble  a  piece  of 
music,  as  beautiful  an  idea  completely  realized,  as 
Wagner's  conception  of  Wotan's  appeal  to  Loge 
at  the  close  of  Die  Walkiire.  The  third  act  begins 
with  the  most  familiar  air  of  the  piece,  Ah!  si  la 
liberte  —  Armide's  soliloquy  before  her  appeal  to 
Hate  to  rescue  her  from  the  bonds  of  love.  The 
ensuing  scenes  are  replete  with  dramatic  express- 
iveness and  I  do  not  know  of  a  scene  more  moving, 
in  its  effective  and  beautiful  simplicity,  in  the  whole 
range  of  music  drama  (nor  am  I  forgetting  the 
poignancy  of  several  episodes  in  the  lyric  dramas 
[239] 


Interpretations 


of  Moussorgsky,  arrived  at,  by  the  way,  by  similar 
means)  than  the  appeal  to  Love  with  which  the  act 
closes.  The  fourth  act  is  an  interlude,  filled  with 
charming  music,  to  be  sure.  And  in  the  fifth  act, 
in  the  duet  between  Armide  and  Renaud,  and  more 
especially  in  the  dramatic  recitative  with  which  the 
work  ends,  may  be  found  the  seed  from  which  grew 
the  great  trees  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

October  22,1915. 


[24-0] 


Erik     S  a  t  i  e 

"  Modern  music  has  produced  nothing  to  replace 
Beethoven  and  Wagner.  Neither  has  modern  litera- 
ture supplanted  Shakespeare.  I  really  cannot  guess 
why  it  should." 

Edwin  Evans. 


Erik   Satie 


PAUL  VERLAINE'S  «  Sagesse  "  appeared 
in  1881  (but  it  was  not  until  1893  that  Ed- 
mond  Gosse  tracked  the  dissipated  poet  to 
the  basement  of  the  Cafe  Soleil  d'Or  in  the  BouP 
Mich'!);  the  Sar  Peladan  published  "  Le  Vice 
Supreme  "  in  1884 ;  in  the  same  year  Joris  K. 
Huysmans  issued  "  A  Rebours  " ;  "  Les  Com- 
plaintes  "  of  Jules  Laforgue  dates  from  1885 ; 
"  Les  Illuminations  "  of  Arthur  Rimbaud  appeared 
in  1886;  so  did  George  Moore's  "  Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man " ;  the  "  Poesies  Completes "  of 
Stephane  Mallarme  are  dated  1887.  .  .  .  Degas, 
Monet,  Renoir,  Manet  .  .  .  were  all  painting  in 
the  Eighteen  Eighties  .  .  .  Augusta  Holmes  was 
presiding  over  her  celebrated  salon  at  which 
Catulle  Mendes,  "  with  his  pale  hair,  and  his  fra- 
gile face  illuminated  with  the  idealism  of  a  depraved 
woman,"  was  an  outstanding  figure.  Were  not 
"  Mephistophela  "  and  "  Le  Roi  Vierge  "  romances 
of  this  epoch?  .  .  .  Symbolism,  mysticism,  vers 
libre,  impressionism,  decadence,  were  in  the  Pari- 
sian air.  Painters  and  writers  alike  were  indulging 
in  strange  acrobatics  —  absinthe  on  the  high  wire. 
Only  the  musicians  stuck  to  the  earth,  refusing  to 
be  lured  to  the  giddy  new  trapezes.  Massenet  and 
[243] 


I  nterp  retations 


Saint-Saens  were  the  popular  French  composers 
.  .  .  Gounod,  Bizet  .  .  .  Cesar  Franck,  believer 
and  mystic,  belonged  to  the  epoch  to  be  sure  (in  the 
Eighties  he  wrote  his  best  piano  music  and  the 
Symphony  in  D  Minor)  and  pointed  toward  the 
future,  a  future  amply  fulfilled  in  the  work  of  Vin- 
cent d'Indy  and  other  disciples  of  the  organist  of 
Sainte-Clotilde.  .  .  .  There  was  another  voice,  a 
wee  small  voice  it  seemed  then,  even  to  its  possessor, 
especially  to  its  possessor.  Erik  Satie  did  not 
consider  himself  an  innovator,  and  at  the  time  his 
music  was  swept  into  the  maelstrom  of  unheard 
things,  but  in  1886  he  had  written  his  Ogives,  in 
1887  his  Sarabandes,  in  1888  his  Gymnopedies,  and 
in  1890  his  Gnossiennes  (which  appeared  the  same 
year  with  the  "Axel"  of  Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam) 
.  .  .  He  passed  unnoticed,  however,  save  for  his 
own  circle,  until  twenty-five  years  later  .  .  .  and 
then  it  was  recalled  that  Claude-Achille  Debussy 
had  very  modestly  stepped  futureward  in  1893  with 
La  Damoiselle  Elue. 

A  strange  figure,  Erik  Satie,  a  shy  and  genial 
fantasist,  who  has  been  writing  strange  music  with 
strange  titles  in  Paris  for  thirty  years,  music  which 
has  only  recently  been  published  in  any  quantity  or 
any  buyable  form  (Roland-Manuel  writes  that  a 
clerk  in  the  largest  Paris  music  shop  told  him  in 
[244] 


Erik    Satie 

1909  that  Satie  had  written  "  some  waltzes  and 
two  cake-walks  "  and  an  old  lady  assured  him  that 
Satie  was  the  proprietor  of  a  bathing  establish- 
ment on  the  Avenue  Trudaine!),  music  which  is 
even  yet  to  be  heard  in  most  of  the  great  concert 
halls  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Beginning  with  the  classic 
form  of  the  sarabande,  Satie,  whose  talent  is  a  curi- 
ously blended  result  of  those  literary  and  artistic 
impulses  which,  at  first,  had  so  little  effect  on  the 
art  of  other  composers,  has  written  a  mass  for  the 
poor,  trumpet  calls  for  the  Rose-Croix,  ditties  for 
a  music  hall  divinity,  preludes  for  plays  by  Jules 
Bois  and  the  Sar  Peladan,  and  dances  for  the  Rus- 
sian Ballet  and  Valentine  de  Saint-Point.  He  has 
celebrated  the  desiccation  of  sea-urchins  and  he  has 
written  a  fugue  in  "  the  form  of  a  pear."  .  .  . 
Over  music  as  simple  in  its  melodic  line,  and  as 
French,  as  that  of  Massenet  he  has  inscribed  the 
most  astounding  titles  and  the  most  terrifying  di- 
rections to  the  performer.  ...  In  one  instance  he 
has  asked  the  pianist  to  play  "  sur  du  velours 
jaunie,  sec  comme  un  coucou,  leger  comme  un 
oeuf  ";  in  another  he  directs  "  like  a  nightingale 
with  a  toothache."  ...  He  has  been  heard  to  re- 
mark, *'.  II  faut  etre  rigolo!  "...  Incorrigible 
Satie  .  .  .  Scotch  and  French,  product  of  Hon- 
fleur,  a  village  organist's  teachings,  Montmartre, 
[245] 


Interp  relations 


the  Conservatoire,  and  the  Schola  Cantorum; 
played  on  by  impressionism,  Catholicism,  Rose- 
crucianism,  Pre-Raphaelitism,  the  science  of  black 
magic,  theosophy,  the  theory  of  androgyny,  the 
camaraderie  of  the  cabaret  .  .  .  part-child,  part- 
devil,  part-faun  ...  all  intelligence  (you  may  get 
the  picture  from  his  portrait  painted  by  Antoine  de 
la  Rouchefoucauld),  there  is  no  other  such  figure 
in  modern  music ;  there  is  no  other  such  figure  in 
all  the  annals  of  music.  .  .  .  The  editor  of  Lom- 
broso  might  issue  a  new  edition  of  "  The  Man  of 
Genius  "  to  include  Satie ;  Gerard  de  Nerval  would 
die  of  envy  were  he  alive;  Jules  Laforgue  would 
feel  that  his  "  Moralites  Legendaires  "  had  not 
been  written  in  vain;  and  Max  Nordau  might 
chortle,  "  I  told  you  so."  .  .  .  Yet  the  bearded 
and  be-spectacled  countenance,  the  tete  de  bla- 
gueur  of  Erik  Satie  is  rarely  seen  on  the  Paris 
boulevards,  and  his  name  is  seldom  celebrated  with 
that  of  his  contemporaries.  Only  in  queer  corners 
of  articles  about  modern  French  composers  you  will 
find  it,  usually  without  pregnant  comment.  .  .  . 
At  least  three  literary  portraits  exist  in  French, 
however.  Jean  Ecorcheville,  Roland-Manuel,  and 
G.  Jean-Aubry  have  all  written  about  him  with 
sympathy,  and  his  name  is  often  on  the  lips  of 
Debussy  and  Ravel.  Both  of  them  have  orches- 
[246] 


Erik    Satie 

trated  works  of  Satie  (why  does  not  Mr.  Damrosch 
include  Debussy's  orchestral  version  of  the  first 
and  third  Gymnopedies  in  one  of  his  programmes  ?  ) 
and  every  Saturday,  I  am  told,  he  visits  the  com- 
poser of  L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune  in  perpetuation 
of  a  friendship  which  has  existed  since  the  two  met 
in  the  late  Eighties  when  Satie  held  forth  at  the 
piano  of  the  Auberge  du  Clou,  Avenue  Tru- 
daine.  .  .  . 

Eric-Alfred  Leslie  Satie  (he  doubtless  owes  this 
remarkable  series  of  names  to  a  Scotch  mother) 
was  born  at  Honfleur  (where  the  aunt  in  the  play 
comes  from)  May  17,  1866  (G.  Jean-Aubry  gives 
this  date  incorrectly  as  1855).  On  his  published 
music  he  has  changed  the  c  in  his  first  Christian 
name  to  a  k  and  dropped  the  Alfred  Leslie.  One 
of  his  childhood  friends  was  Alphonse  Allais, 
doubtless  an  early  instigator  of  that  subtle  buf- 
foonery which  later  became  a  notable  character- 
istic with  Satie.  His  first  music  teacher  was  the 
organist  (Vinot,  a  pupil  of  Niedermeyer)  of  the 
church  of  Sainte-Catherine  in  the  village  of  Hon- 
fleur and  it  was  just  here  in  the  beginning,  perhaps, 
that  he  became  imbued  with  that  Gregorian  spirit 
which  permeates  a  good  deal  of  his  music.  .  .  . 
At  the  age  of  eight  his  musical  education  is  said 
to  have  begun,  but  neither  then  nor  later  did  he 
[247] 


Interpretations 


manifest  signs  of  precocity  or  aptitude.  There 
is  something  of  a  similarity  to  be  observed  in  the 
case  of  Moussorgsky;  neither  of  these  musicians 
ever  learned  to  handle  the  old  technique  of  their 
art  freely  and  yet  (perhaps  I  should  say,  and  so) 
both  succeeded  in  expressing  themselves.  ...  At 
the  age  of  twelve  Satie  left  Honfleur  for  Paris, 
where  his  first  teacher  was  Guilmant.  At  the 
Paris  Conservatoire,  which  he  entered  in  1879, 
Satie  was  indolent  and  there  is  a  legend  that  he 
was  dropped  from  one  piano  class  on  the  ground 
of  sheer  incompetence.  His  teachers  of  harmony 
assured  him  that  his  metier  was  the  piano;  his 
piano  professors  advised  him  to  stick  to  composi- 
tion ;  and  Mathias,  the  Hungarian,  a  pupil  of 
Chopin,  in  despair  one  day  counselled  Satie  to  study 
the  violin!  Decidedly  this  young  man  was  not 
considered  musical  at  the  Conservatoire.  In  the 
classes  of  Mathias  he  was  a  co-pupil  with  Chevil- 
lard,  Paul  Dukas,  and  Philipp,  but  there  is  no 
evidence  that  he  ever  acquired  any  great  efficiency 
in  the  art  of  piano  playing;  rather  the  contrary. 
.  .  .  Next  we  find  him  in  the  cabarets  of  Mont- 
martre  (one  writer  speaks  of  the  Chat  Noir  where 
he  must  have  been  a  contemporary  of  Yvette  Guil- 
bert  unless  she  was  singing  at  the  Divan  Japonais 
at  this  epoch)  and  playing  at  the  Auberge  du  Clou 
[248] 


Erik    Satie 

which  remains  to  this  day  a  popular  eating  place 
for  artists,  and  it  was  here,  according  to  Jean- 
Aubry,  that  he  met  Claude-Achille  Debussy,  who 
might  have  heard  him  play  his  Ogives  (1886)  and 
the  now  famous  Sarabandes  (1887),  of  which  there 
are  three,  ''  les  deux  manches  et  la  belle"  The 
mystic  harmonies  in  these  strange  piano  pieces 
spell  (and  ante-date)  much  of  the  mysterious  won- 
der in  Debussy's  later  work.  Was  this  the  Gre- 
gorian inspiration?  Satie  did  not  know  that  he 
was  revolutionary;  he  did  not  want  to  be;  he  did 
not  expect  to  be.  He  wrote  his  round  clear  notes 
on  white  sheets  of  paper.  He  did  not  ask  anybody 
to  play  his  music ;  he  made  no  effort  to  get  it  pub- 
lished, and  so  he  remained  obscure.  (There  is  an 
analogy  in  the  case  of  Henri  Rousseau,  the  painter, 
who,  I  am  told,  wanted  "  to  paint  like  Bougue- 
reau."  He  strove  to  be  academic.  Fortunately 
he  never  succeeded.) 

About  this  time  Satie  encountered  the  Sar 
Peladan  and  the  second  cycle  of  his  career  began. 
One  of  the  phenomena  of  the  early  Nineties  in  Paris 
was  the  foundation  of  a  mystical  sect,  half  artistic, 
half  theosophic,  called  the  Salon  de  la  Rose-Croix. 
A  youth  with  an  ascetic,  Assyrian  face,  a  mop  of 
black  hair,  a  wealth  of  black  beard,  and  piercing, 
penetrating  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Maurice  Renaud  as 
[249] 


Interpretations 


Athanael  in  Thais,  Josephin  Aime  Peladan,  was 
the  founder.  He  was  the  son  of  a  writer  and 
mystic,  Adrien  Peladan,  and  was  born  at  Lyons  in 
1858.  He  began  as  a  fervent  disciple  of  Barbey 
d'Aurevilly,  by  writing  romances ;  later  he  travelled 
in  Italy  and  went  to  Bayreuth  and  wrote  about 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Richard  Wagner ;  then  he 
proclaimed  himself  Sar,  became  a  magician,  wore 
long  flowing  robes,  founded  the  Salon  of  the  Rose- 
Croix  (1892-1898),  gave  aesthetic  soirees,  at  which 
esoteric  dramas  of  his  own  devising  were  per- 
formed, and  generally  held  the  attention  by  his 
eccentricities.  His  books,  written  in  a  blatant 
metaphoric  style,  were  a  strange  mixture  of  the 
dreams  of  a  magician,  the  faith  of  an  obstinate 
Catholic,  a  hallucinatory  idealism,  glorification  of 
the  flesh,  and  erotic  sensualism.  His  knowledge  of 
music,  of  painting,  of  the  life  of  the  Greeks,  of  all 
the  subjects  he  touched  upon  (and  they  were 
many) ,  was  seemingly  a  little  confused ;  his  philoso- 
phy was  neither  scientific  nor  literary.  The  novel- 
ists thought  of  him  as  a  mystic  and  a  man  of  ideas ; 
to  the  mystics  he  remained  a  novelist ;  to  the  public 
at  large  he  loomed  as  another  of  those  eccentric  fig- 
ures which  always  amuse  the  Paris  crowd.  His 
principal  work  is  the  series  of  novels  called  by  him 
"  Ethopees,"  which  appeared  under  the  general 
[250] 


Erik    Satie 

title  of  "  Decadence  Latine."  It  includes  "  Le 
Vice  Supreme"  (1884),  « Curieuse "  (1885), 
"  L'Initiation  Sentimentale  "  (1886),  "A  Coeur 
Perdu"  (1887),  "  Istar  "  (1888),  "La  Victoire 
du  Mari"  (1889),  "Coeur  en  Peine "  (1890), 
"Androgyne"  (1891),  "  Le  Panthee  "  (1893), 
"Typhonia"  (1893),  "  Le  Dernier  Bourbon" 
(1895),  "La  Lamentation  d'llou  "  (1896),  "La 
Vertu  Supreme  "  (1896),  and  "  Finis  Latinorum  " 
(1899).  Some  of  his  other  books  are  "  Comment 
On  Devient  Mage  "  (1892;  let  us  hope  he  did  not 
advocate  the  method  of  Bouvard  and  Pecuchet), 
"Comment  On  Devient  Fee"  (1893),  "  L'Art 
Idealiste  et  Mystique"  (1894).  Recently  he  has 
published  his  book  on  the  war,  "  L'Allemagne 
devant  PHumanite  "  (1916).  His  plays  include 
Le  Fils  des  Etoiles  (1895),  Promethee,  S  emir  amis 
(1897),  Oedipe  et  le  Sphinx  (1898),  and  Le  Mys- 
tere  du  Grail.  It  is  interesting  to  read  the  letters 
in  which  the  directors  of  the  Odeon  (Porel)  and 
the  Comedie  Fran9aise  (Jules  Claretie)  refused  his 
play,  Le  Prince  de  Byzance.  They  are  published 
in  the  volume  with  the  play.  Le  Fils  des  Etoiles 
was  also  refused  at  both  these  theatres.  His 
play,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  was  translated  into 
English  "  and  adapted  "  by  Harold  John  Massing- 
ham.  .  .  .  Peladan  gave  a  performance  in  Paris 
[251  ] 


Interpretations 


(March  17,  1892)  of  Palestrina's  Pope  Marcellus 
Mass.  .  .  .  Gustave  Moreau  was  interested  in  his 
salons  and  I  believe  that  Odilon  Redon  exposed  pic- 
tures there.  .  .  .  Among  the  other  painters  in  the 
Rose-Croix  movement  Jean  Delville,  Alphonse  Os- 
bert,  Carlos  Seon,  Egusquiza,  Aman  Jean,  Fernan 
Khopff,  and  Armand  Point  may  be  mentioned.  A 
feature  of  the  salon  of  1893  was  the  portrait  of 
Peladan  by  Marcellin  Desboutins.  .  .  .  Was  Al- 
bert Samain  one  of  the  poets  of  the  movement? 
Certainly  Erik  Satie  composed  music  for  two  of 
the  Sar's  plays  (this  fact  is  not  mentioned  in  the 
books  of  the  plays ;  of  so  little  importance  was  the 
name  of  Satie  at  the  time),  Le  Fils  des  Etoiles  and 
Le  Prince  de  Byzance,  and  he  wrote  trumpet  calls, 
emulating  the  fashion  of  Bayreuth,  for  the  Salon  of 
the  Rose-Croix.  Roland-Manuel  professes  to  dis- 
cover a  revolt  against  Wagnerism  in  this  music; 
personally  I  do  not  believe  that  Satie  was  making 
any  such  conscious  attempt.  Ravel  orchestrated 
the  prelude  for  Le  Fils  des  Etoiles,  the  "  Wagnerie 
Jcaldeenne  "  of  the  Sar  Peladan  (performed  at  Du- 
rand-RuePs  in  February,  1892). 

About  this  time  Satie  composed  the  music  for  a 

ballet,  Uspud,  which  brought  about  a  rupture  with 

the  direction  of  the  Opera.     He  is  said  to  have 

proposed  a  duel  and  to  have  been  refused!     An- 

[252] 


Erik    Satie 

other  incredibly  out  of  character  episode  of  this 
period  was  his  attempt  to  become  a  member  of  the 
Institut  upon  the  death  of  Ernest  Guiraud  (it  was 
Guiraud  to  whom  fell  the  honour  of  completing 
Les  Contes  d 'Hoffmann,  left  unfinished  at  Offen- 
bach's death)  in  1892.  Gustave  Moreau  is  said 
to  have  been  the  only  member  of  the  august  body 
in  favour  of  admitting  him. 

A  long  silence  ensued.  Satie  was  forgotten 
seemingly.  .  .  He  felt  the  need  of  technical  forti- 
fication and  he  immured  himself  in  the  Schola  Can- 
torum,  from  which  institution  he  emerged  with 
pastorals,  chorals,  and  fugues,  in  the  best  d'Indy 
forms,  if  not  quite  in  the  d'Indy  manner !  .  .  .  The 
real  emergence  of  Satie  occurred  on  January  16, 
1911  when  Ravel  played  three  of  his  compositions, 
including  one  of  the  Sardbandes  at  a  concert  of 
the  Societe  Musicale  Independente.  .  .  .  This 
baffling  figure  was  now  dragged  into  the  audito- 
rium, and  to  the  music  publishers,  and  a  series  of 
remarkable  piano  works  has  resulted.  .  .  .  At 
present  Erik  Satie  lives  at  Arcueil  near  the  forti- 
fications of  Paris. 

The  list  of  Satie's  work  is  long  and  interesting. 

A  few  of  the  pieces  mentioned,  however,  have  not 

as  yet  been  published.     Of  others  the  manuscript 

has  disappeared.     Here  is  the  list,  which  I  think 

[253] 


Interpretations 


is  nearly  complete:  Valse-Ballet  (1885),  which 
appeared  in  the  "  Musique  des  Families  " ;  Les 
Anges,  Sylvie,  and  Les  Fleurs  (1885;  songs,  all  of 
which  are  lost)  ;  Ogives  (1886)  ;  Trois  Sardbandes 
(1887)  ;  Trois  Gymnopedies  (1888)  ;  Trois  Gnos- 
siennes  (1890)  ;  three  preludes  for  Le  Fils  des 
Etottes  (1891);  L'Hymne  au  Drapeau  for  Le 
Prince  de  Byzance  (1891)  ;  prelude  for  Le  Naz- 
areen  of  Henri  Mazel  (1892)  ;  Les  Sonneries  de 
la  Rose-Croix  (1892)  ;  Uspud,  "Christian  ballet 
for  one  dancer"  (1892),  respectfully  submitted 
by  me  to  Waslav  Nijinsky  as  a  suggestion  (pub- 
lished by  La  Librarie  de  1'Art  Independant)  ;  pre- 
lude for  a  play  by  Jules  Bois,  La  Porte  Heroique 
du  del  (1893;  orchestrated  by  Roland-Manuel) ; 
Danses  Gothiques,  neuvaines  pour  le  plus  grand 
calme  et  la  forte  tranquillite  de  mon  dme,  mise 
sous  ^invocation  de  Saint-Benoit  (1893;  the  ex- 
tracts from  these  dances  published  in  "  S.  I.  M." 
are  incorrectly  printed) ;  La  Messe  des  Pauvres 
(1895)  ;  in  1896  Satie  made  some  sketches  for  an 
English  pantomime,  Jack  in  the  Box,  in  collabora- 
tion with  Jules  Depaquit  (mss.  lost)  ;  Pieces 
Froides  (Airs  &  faire  fuir  and  Danses  de  trovers 
[dedicated  to  Mme.  J.  Ecorcheville]  1897)  ;  Le 
Picadilly,  for  piano,  and  arranged  for  small  or- 
chestra (out  of  print)  ;  Je  te  veux,  waltz  for 
[254] 


Erik    Satie 

piano ;  also  arranged  as  a  song  and  for  small  or- 
chestra (1897)  ;  Poudre  d'or,  waltz  (1897)  ;  Ten- 
drement,  valse  chantee!!!  (1897);  La  Diva  de 
I 'Empire,  song  (1900)  ;  Ecorcheville  mentions  some 
sketches  for  a  Poisson  Reveur  (1900);  Trois 
morceaux  en  forme  de  poire,  avec  une  maniere  de 
commencement,  une  prolongation  du  meme  et  un  en 
plus,  suivi  d'une  redite,  piano,  four  hands  (1903; 
orchestrated  by  Roland-Manuel)  ;  Pousse  V Amour, 
music  for  a  play  by  M.  de  Feraudy  (1905)  ;  En 
habit  de  cheval;  pieces  en  forme  de  fugue  (choral- 
fugue  litanique —  autre  choral-fugue  de  papier), 
piano,  four  hands  (1911)  ;  and  Apercus  Desagre- 
dbles  (Pastorale,  Choral,  and  Fugue) ,  piano,  four 
hands  (1911). 

Since  1912  he  has  written:  Veritdbles  preludes 
ftasques  (pour  un  chien)  (1912)  ;  Les  pantins  dan- 
sent,  for  Valentine  de  Saint-Point  (1912);  De- 
scriptions automatiques  (April  1913);  Embryons 
desseches  (June  1913)  ;  Croquis  et  agaceries  d'un 
gros  bonhomme  en  bois  (July  1913) ;  Chapitres 
tournes  en  tous  sens  (August  1913)  ;  Vieux  sequins, 
vieilles  cuirasses  (1913)  ;  Pieces  enfantines  (1913)  ; 
La  piege  de  Meduse,  dances  for  a  comedy  of  the 
composer  (1913)  ;  Choses  -cues  a  droite  et  a  gauche, 
fcfor  piano  and  violin  (1913)  ;  Les  heures  seculaires 
et  instantanees  (1914);  Trois  valses  distinguees 
[255] 


Interpretations 


du  precieux  degoute  (1914);  Trois  poemes 
d'amour,  words  by  the  composer  (1914)  ;  Jeux  et 
divertissements  (1914);  Avant-dernieres  pensees 
(1915);  and  Dapheneo,  Le  Chapelier,  and  La 
Statue  de  bronze,  songs  (1916). 

Edgard  Varese  had  arranged  the  music  for  an 
extraordinary  performance  of  Shakespeare's 
comedy,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  at  the 
Cirque-Nouveau  in  Paris,  a  performance  which 
had  to  be  abandoned.  He  had  chosen  music  by 
Florent-Schmitt,  Varese,  Debussy,  Strawinsky, 
Roussel,  and  Ravel.  Oberon  was  to  have  made  his 
august  entrance  to  the  strains  of  Tipperary,  and 
Satie  contributed  Cinq  Grimaces  for  the  occasion. 

Before  the  war  began  Jean  Cocteau,  Paulet 
Thevenaz,  and  Strawinsky  were  planning  a  work 
called  Parade  for  the  Russian  Ballet.  It  did  not 
progress  beyond  the  idea.  Later  Cocteau  trans- 
ferred his  attention  to  Satie  and  Picasso.  Parade 
was  produced  by  the  Russians  in  Paris  May  18, 
1917.  The  other  novelties  in  this  short  season  at 
the  Chatelet  were  Conies  Russes  (Kikimora,  Bovo 
Karolewitch,  Bdba  Yaga,  and  Epilogue  et  Danses 
Russes)  :  music  by  Liadow,  choregraphy  by  Mias- 
sine,  settings  and  costumes  by  Larionow ;  Les  Fem- 
mes  de  Bonne  Humeur,  adapted  from  a  comedy  of 
Goldoni ;  music  by  Scarlatti,  orchestrated  by  Tom- 
[256] 


Erik    Satie 

masini ;  choregraphy  by  Miassine ;  scenery  and  cos- 
tumes by  Leon  Bakst  (the  setting  was  arranged 
as  though  it  were  seen  through  a  crystal  globe, 
deforming  the  lines  of  perspective)  ;  and  Las  Me- 
ninas,  danced  to  a  Pavane  of  Gabriel  Faure;  set- 
ting by  Carl  Socrate ;  costumes  by  Jose-Maria 
Sert  (who,  it  will  be  remembered,  designed  the  set- 
ting for  The  Legend  of  Joseph)  ;  choregraphy  by 
Miassine,  who  was  also  responsible  for  the  chore- 
graphy of  Parade.  Nijinsky  did  not  dance  in  this 
Paris  season.  The  principal  interpreters  of  the 
troupe  were  Mmes.  Tchernicheva  and  Lopoukowa, 
and  Leonide  Miassine.  ...  At  the  first  perform- 
ance in  Paris  Parade  was  given  with  Les  Sylphides, 
Petrouchka,  and  Soleil  de  Nuit. 

Here  is  Jean  Cocteau's  scenario  as  it  was  printed 
in  the  programmes:  "The  scene  represents  the 
houses  of  Paris  on  a  Sunday.  Street  Theatre. 
Three  music  hall  numbers  serve  as  the  free  show. 
Chinese  magician.  American  girl.  Acrobats. 
Three  managers  organize  the  publicity.  They  ex- 
plain in  their  terrible  language  that  the  crowd 
takes  the  free  show  for  the  spectacle  inside  and 
they  try  to  make  the  people  understand  their  error. 
Nobody  is  convinced.  After  the  final  number  su- 
preme effort  of  the  managers.  The  Chinaman, 
the  acrobats,  and  the  girl  come  out  of  the  empty 
[257] 


I  nterp  relations 


theatre.  Seeing  the  failure  of  the  managers  they 
try  for  the  last  time  their  own  charms  but  it  is  too 
late." 

Picasso's  costumes  did  not  please  the  critics. 
That  does  not  mean  that  they  were  not  good.  Of 
course,  however,  Charles  Demuth  is  the  man 
chosen  by  God  to  make  the  designs  for  this  sym- 
bolic ballet.  As  for  Satie's  music  that  too  seems 
to  have  caused  a  disturbance  similar  to  that  pro- 
voked by  the  production  of  The  Sacrifice  to  the 
Spring,  although  perhaps  not  so  serious.  The 
critics  did  not  like  this  music.  From  Pierre 
Lalo's  article  in  "  Le  Temps  "  I  gathered  that  Sa- 
tie  had  introduced  a  new  instrument  into  the  mod- 
ern orchestra,  the  typewriter !  !  !  ! 

Here  is  what  Henri  Quittard  had  to  say  in  "  Le 
Figaro  " :  "  La  musique  de  M.  Erik  Satie  ne  me- 
rite  pas  moins  de  louanges  (this  after  a  paragraph 
devoted  to  the  demolishment  of  Picasso).  Ce 
compositeur  a  recu  du  ciel  la  grace  singuliere  de 
conserver  toute  sa  vie  1'heureuse  facilite  des  per- 
sonnes  tres  jeunes  a  prendre  le  plus  vif  plaisir  aux 
blagues  d'atelier  et  aux  grosses  charges  des  plus 
innocentes.  II  s'est  done  diverti,  avec  une  fan- 
taisie  tant  soit  peu  laborieuse,  a  reproduire  les 
effets  burlesques  qu'une  douzaine  de  musiciens  de 
foire  produisent  sans  effort  et  meme  sans  y  penser 
[258] 


Erik    Satie 

le  moins  du  rronde.  II  lui  a  fallu,  pour  un  resultat 
si  plaisant,  beaucoup  de  travail  et  un  nombreux 
orchestra  d'excellents  artistes.  Mais  il  a  fort  bien 
reussi.  Et  je  ne  doute  pas  qu'il  n'ait  pris  un 
grand  divertissement  a  si  belle  besogne." 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  both  Strawin- 
sky  and  Satie  are  very  much  interested  in  clowns 
nowadays,  as  impersonal  mediums  for  the  expres- 
sion of  the  comic  spirit.  ...  At  present  this  com- 
poser is  working  on  a  string  quartet  and  a  Scene 
Lyrique  after  the  Dialogues  of  Plato.  Satie  also 
dreams  of  writing  "  furniture  music  "  for  the  dif- 
ferent rooms  of  a  house  and  the  different  occur- 
rences of  life. 

You  will  find  the  name  of  Satie  furtively  poking 
its  head  out  of  odd  manuscripts  yet  to  be  published, 
touched  on  in  the  writings  of  James  Huneker 
and  Philip  Hale,  and  mentioned  in  obscure  corners 
of  newspaper  feuilletons  about  French  music  (Rene 
Lenormand,  in  "  L'Harmonie  Moderne,"  gives 
Satie  the  credit  of  having  initiated  the  French 
renaissance  in  music),  but  his  delicate  melodies  are 
seldom  performed  in  public  (however,  Riccardo 
Vines  has  given  many  auditions  of  his  works  in 
Paris)  ;  their  structure  is  too  ethereal,  too  gauze- 
like,  too  butterfly-winged,  too  gauche,  too  angular, 
at  once  too  refined  and  too  barbaric  to  meet  the 
[259] 


Interpretations 


tympanum  of  the  public  ear.  It  is  vague  music, 
but  has  not  vagueness  become  the  slogan  of  a  school 
since  Satie  began  to  write?  Musicians  know,  and 
some  of  them  love,  this  music,  and  its  relation  to 
the  work  of  the  more  publicly  recognized  Debussy 
is  too  apparent  to  call  for  extended  comment. 
There  is  more  than  a  casual  use  of  the  whole-tone 
scale  to  recommend  this  comparison  to  the  critical 
ear;  there  is  a  fragile  melodic  line,  and  there  are 
sonorous  harmonies,  formed  without  regard  for 
tradition,  to  be  played  diminuendo.  Satie's  very 
limitations  have  added  to  his  artistic  stature. 
Like  Moussorgsky,  if  he  had  been  more  of  an  ex- 
p'ert  with  the  cliche  and  technique  of  his  art  he 
might  not  have  developed  his  own  personality  so 
successfully,  might  not  have  expressed  himself  so 
sincerely,  with  so  much  originality.  .  .  .  From  the 
beginning  he  imagined  strange  procedures.  For 
instance  he  hit,  almost  at  once,  on  the  plan  of  pub- 
lishing his  music  without  bar  lines.  (Satie  here, 
of  course,  remembered  the  old  religious  composers. 
The  tyranny  of  the  bar  line  in  music  dates  back  no 
farther  than  the  Seventeenth  Century.  ...  It  is 
interesting  to  observe  that  Stephane  Mallarm£  in 
many  of  his  poems  ignored  punctuation  ;  a  modern 
English  poet,  Mina  Loy,  has  followed  his  example.) 
There  are  no  separations.  Nothing  is  dichoto- 
[260] 


Erik    Satie 

mized.  .  .  .  The  music  runs  along.  ...  It  is  not 
difficult  to  play,  however,  as  Satie  has  the  habit  of 
employing  few  accidentals  and  almost  all  the  notes 
in  many  of  his  compositions  are  of  the  same,  or  a 
related,  value.  Appogiatura,  syncopation,  brav- 
ura, he  is  not  friendly  with.  The  pieces  are  writ- 
ten in  facile  keys  for  pianists.  They  are  some- 
times difficult  for  the  ear  and  brain,  never  for  the 
fingers.  ..."  Their  particular  colour,"  writes 
Jean  Ecorcheville,  "  is  made  up  of  harmonic  blem- 
ishes, subtly  combined,  sonoroties  juxtaposed  with- 
out regard  for  the  permitted  cadences  or  the  re- 
quired resolutions."  .  .  .  He  has  written  tunes  for 
Paulette  Darty,  divette  de  music-hall,  to  sing.  .  .  . 
Fancy,  even  a  song  called  Tendrement  .  .  .  and 
the  music-hall,  the  cabaret  atmosphere  enter, 
strangely  disguised,  even  into  the  Gymnopedies 
(did  these  dances  for  nude  Spartan  babies,  in- 
spired by  the  "  Salammbo  "  of  Flaubert,  in  turn 
inspire  Isadora  Duncan?).  This  is  a  part  of  his 
joke,  for  he  is  very  gamin,  this  composer,  and  he 
loves  the  rigolo.  Certainly  the  first  Sarabande 
bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  prelude  to 
Tristan.  ...  In  La  Tyrolienne  turque,  Espan- 
ana,  Celle  qui  parle  trap,  and  Sur  un  vaisseau  you 
may  find  other  adroit  and  ridiculous  quotations. 
...  In  one  instance  he  has  transposed  the  trio  of 
[261] 


Interpretations 


Chopin's  Funeral  March  to  C  major  and  written 
under  it  that  it  is  a  citation  from  the  celebrated 
mazurka  of  Schubert.  There  are  jocular  refer- 
ences to  Puccini  and  Chabrier.  .  .  .  Then  there 
is  the  mystical  side  of  his  nature  .  .  .  the  Gothic 
side,  revealed  in  his  Gothic  Dances  and  his  Pointed 
Arches,  with  their  angular  lines.  His  pale  frail 
Gnossiennes  (Gnosse  was  a  town  in  ancient  Crete), 
the  second  of  which  is  a  veritable  masterpiece  of 
definite  indecision  (like  a  miniature  picture  in  tone 
of  Flaubert's  "  L'Education  Sentimentale  "),  were 
partly  the  result  of  the  Javanese  dances  at  the 
Paris  Exposition  in  1889  and  partly  of  the  Greek 
chorus  of  Saint- Julien-le-Pauvre  (Satie,  I  am  told, 
spends  long  hours  in  the  churches,  listening  to  the 
organ  and  the  chanting  of  the  priests).  Timor- 
ous, meticulous,  mincing,  neat,  petulant,  petty,  are 
some  of  the  adjectives  one  might  apply  to  this 
music,  and  yet  none  of  them  exactly  describes  its 
effect,  half -spiritual,  half-mocking!  Is  there  any 
other  music  like  it?  Baudelaire  once  wrote: 
"  Have  you  observed  that  a  bit  of  sky  seen  through 
an  air-hole,  or  between  two  chimneys,  two  rocks,  or 
through  an  arcade,  gives  a  more  profound  idea 
of  the  infinite  than  the  grand  panorama  seen  from 
the  top  of  a  mountain?  " 

There  are  three  periods  to  be  observed  in  the 
[262] 


Erik    Satie 

style  of  Satie.  First  the  period  of  the  Sarabandes 
and  the  Gymnopedies  (by  no  means  the  usual  im- 
mature output  of  a  composer's  nonage)  ;  next  the 
period  in  which  he  applied  himself  to  find  fantastic 
expression  for  the  vagaries  of  the  Salon  de  la 
Rose-Croix ;  finally  the  period  in  which  he  appeared 
before  his  little  world  bearing  before  him  his 
printed  music,  garnished  with  the  most  extrava- 
gant titles.  .  .  .  From  these  titles  and  from  his 
directions  to  performers  one  might  derive  the  idea 
that  Satie  is  a  purveyor  of  programme  music. 
Nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth.  .  .  .  His 
titles  and  his  directions,  apparently,  often  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  music  they  are 
supposed  to  describe.  True  ironist  that  he  is  he 
conceals  his  diffidence  under  these  fantastic  titles. 
He  ridicules  his  own  emotion  at  just  the  point  at 
which  the  auditor  is  about  to  discover  it.  He  also 
protects  himself  against  the  pedants  and  the  phili- 
stines  by  raising  these  barriers.  Is  not  this  a 
form  of  snobbery?  "  II  est  de  toute  evidence," 
Satie  is  quoted  as  saying  to  Roland-Manuel,  '*  que 
les  Aplatis,  les  Insignifiants,  et  les  Boursoufles  rfy 
prendront  aucun  plaisir.  Qu'ils  avalent  leurs 
barbes.  Qu'ils  se  dansent  sur  le  venire"  .  .  . 
Under  a  melancholy  tune  he  has  posed  these  words : 
"  This  is  the  hunt  after  a  lobster.  The  hunters 
[263] 


I  nterp  relations 


descend  to  the  bottom  of  the  water.  They  run. 
The  sound  of  the  horn  is  heard  at  the  bottom  of 
the  seas.  The  lobster  is  tracked.  The  lobster 
weeps."  ...  In  his  remarkable  theatre  in  Petro- 
grad  Everei'now  has  given  performances  of  Bern- 
ard Shaw's  Candida  at  which  a  little  negro 
page-boy  read  all  the  stage  directions  as  they  oc- 
curred in  the  text.  It  was  this  Russian  producer's 
idea  that  the  author's  comments  were  the  best  part 
of  the  play  and  he  was  determined  that  his  audi- 
ences should  share  them.  A  performer  of  Satie's 
later  music  should  resort  to  some  similar  expedient, 
if  he  wishes  his  audience  in  on  the  whole  fun.  If 
Vladimir  de  Pachmann  were  the  pianist,  he  might 
not  only  play  and  read  Satie's  directions  but  add 
others  of  his  own  as  well.  Fancy  de  Pachmann 
playing  the  delicate  Airs  to  make  you  run  from  the 
Cold  Pieces,  saying  at  intervals,  softly  to  his  audi- 
tors. .  .  .  En  y  regardant  a  deux  foix  .  .  .  Sele 
dire.  .  .  .  A  plat  .  .  .  Blanc  .  .  .  Toujours.  .  .  . 
Passer  .  .  .  Pareillement.  .  .  .  Du  coin  de  la 
main  (how  Pachmann  would  love  to  say  that!) 
.  .  .  Seul.  .  .  .  Etre  visible  un  moment.  .  .  .  Se 
raccorder  .  .  .  Un  peu  cuit  .  .  .  Encore  .  .  . 
Mieux  .  . .  Encore.  . .  .  Tres  bien.  .  .  .  Merceilleuse- 
ment.  .  .  .  Parfait  .  .  .  N'Allez  pas  plus  liaut.  .  .  . 
Sans  bruit  .  .  .  and  Tres  loin.  ...  In  the  lan- 
[264] 


Erik    Satie 

tern  number  of  Descriptions  automatiques  the 
player  is  told  to  keep  from  lighting  the  lantern, 
next  to  light  it,  to  extinguish  it,  and  finally  to  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  ...  all  of  this,  so  far  as 
one  can  make  out  with  the  aid  of  the  naked  ear, 
without  any  perceptible  relation  to  the  music  which 
is,  as  one  biographer  points  out,  mostly  in  two 
voices  1 

The  importance  of  Satie  lies  in  the  fact  that  he, 
without  knowing  it,  even  without  others  knowing 
it,  was  really  the  founder  of  the  French  impression- 
istic school.  He  liberated  French  music  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  major-minor.  This  is  realized  by 
the  impressionists  themselves  to-day,  thirty  years 
too  late  perhaps,  but  they  are  endeavouring  to 
make  amends.  Erik  Satie  began  the  attack,  un- 
wittingly, which  led  to  the  present  victory.  .  .  . 
The  new  art  was  born  of  irresolution,  a  circum- 
stance, as  Ecorcheville  says,  which  finds  an  analogy 
at  the  close  of  the  Sixteenth  Century.  .  .  .  The 
artist  finds  pleasure  in  fugitive  dissonances,  which 
the  academicians  describe  as  licentious,  but  a  new 
movement  results.  .  .  .  Ecorcheville,  with  a  bit 
of  a  smile,  compares  Satie  to  Monteverde.  .  .  . 
His  effect  on  his  successors,  possibly,  has  been 
just  as  important.  And  while  the  pedants  may 
refuse  to  take  him  seriously  and  the  great  public 
[265] 


Interpretations 


does  not  even  know  his  name,  future  historians 
must  reserve  a  few  pages  for  this  esoteric  figure. 
.  .  .  Fumiste  —  peut-etre  —  mats  il  a  fait  quelque 
chose. 

November  16, 1916. 


[266] 


The     Great    American 
Composer 

"  nothing  popular  should  be  held  beneath  the  atten- 
tion of  thoughtful  people  — " 

H.  R.  Haweis. 


The  Great  American 
Composer 

WHEN  some  curious  critic,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  searches  through  the  avail- 
able archives  in  an  attempt  to  discover 
what  was  the  state  of  American  music  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Twentieth  Century  do  you  fancy  that 
he  will  take  the  trouble  to  exhume  and  dig  into  the 
ponderous  scores  of  Henry  Hadley,  Arthur  Foote, 
Ernest  Schelling,  George  W.  Chadwick,  Horatio 
W.  Parker,  and  the  rest  of  the  recognizedly  "  im- 
portant "  composers  of  the  present  day?  Will  he 
hesitate  for  ten  minutes  to  peruse  the  scores  of 
Mona,  the  Four  Seasons  Symphony  or  The  Pipe 
of  Desire?  A  plethora  of  books  and  articles  on 
the  subject  will  cause  him  to  wonder  why  so  much 
pother  was  made  about  Edward  MacDowell,  and 
he  will  even  shake  his  head  a  trifle  wearily  over  the 
saccharine  delights  of  The  Rosary  and  Narcissus. 
But  if  he  is  lucky  enough  to  run  across  copies  of 
Waiting  for  the  Robert  E.  Lee,  Alexander's  Rag- 
time Band,  or  Hello  Frisco,  which  are  scarcely 
mentioned  in  the  literature  of  our  time,  his  face 
will  light  up  and  he  will  feel  very  much  as  Yvette 
Guilbert  must  have  felt  when  she  unearthed  Le 
[269] 


I  nterp  relations 


Cycle  du  Fin,.or  Le  Lien  Serre  or  C'est  le  Mai,  and 
he  will  attempt  to  find  out,  probably  in  vain  (until 
he  disinters  a  copy  of  this  article  in  some  public 
library)  something  about  the  composers,  Lewis 
F.  Muir,  Irving  Berlin,  and  Louis  A.  Hirsch,  the 
true  grandfathers  of  the  Great  American  Com- 
poser of  the  year  2001. 

There  are  difficulties  in  his  way.  Nothing  dis- 
appears so  soon  from  the  face  of  the  earth  as  a 
•eery  popular  song.  The  music  shops  sell  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  copies  before  the  demand 
suddenly  ceases.  No  more  copies  are  ordered 
from  the  publishers,  who  themselves  lose  interest 
in  songs  which  may  be  taking  up  space  which 
should  be  allotted  to  newer  tunes.  As  for  the 
purchasers,  on  every  moving  day  they  consign 
their  old  popular  songs  to  the  dustheap.  After 
the  Ball  makes  way  for  Two  Little  Girls  in  Blue 
(or  vice-versa;  I  really  can  not  be  expected  to  re- 
member that  far  back !)  Try  to  buy  After  the 
Ball  now  and  see  if  you  can.  Advertise  for  a  copy 
and  see  if  you  can  get  one.  You  will  find  it  very 
difficult,  I  think,  and  yet  it  was  only  1892,  or 
1893,  when  everybody  was  singing  this  melancholy 
tale  of  the  misadventures  of  a  little  girl  in  a  big 
city.  No  doubt  at  that  period  kind  old  ladies 
stopped  on  the  streets  to  pat  bleached  blondes  on 
[270] 


Great  American  Composer 

the  cheeks,  with  the  reflection,  "  She  may  be  some- 
body's daughter." 

Music  of  that  variety  will  not  be  sought  after 
by  collectors  and  prized  and  sung  again,  except 
out  of  curiosity,  or  to  "  furnish  innocent  merri- 
ment." There  will  be  those,  no  doubt,  impelled 
to  form  a  collection  of  the  sentimentalities  of  the 
late  Nineteenth  Century,  including  therein  the 
drawings  of  Howard  Chandler  Christy,  which  will 
be  as  rare  as  black  hawthorne  vases  in  2000,  and 
the  novels  of  George  Barr  McCutcheon,  a  single 
copy  of  whose  "  Nedra  "  or  "  Graustark  "  may 
fetch  the  tidy  sum  of  forty  dollars  in  gold  at  some 
Twenty-first  Century  auction. 

The  sentimental  song,  however,  has  been  largely 
obliterated  in  the  output  of  the  best  new  music  of 
the  Twentieth  Century,  into  which  a  new  quality 
has  crept,  a  quality  which  may  serve  to  keep  it 
alive,  just  as  the  "  coon  songs  "  which  preceded 
it  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  have  been  kept  alive. 
Dixie  and  such  solemn  tunes  as  were  devised  by 
Stephen  C.  Foster  are  not  to  be  scoffed  at.  They 
are  not  scoffed  at,  as  we  very  well  know.  They 
are  sung  and  played  like  the  folk-songs  of  other 
nations.  They  are  known  all  over  the  world. 
They  have  found  their  way  into  serious  composi- 
tions by  celebrated  composers.  Even  the  cake- 


Interpretations 


walks  of  a  later  date,  The  Georgia  Campmeeting, 
Hetto,  Ma  Baby,  and  the  works  of  Williams  and 
Walker  (curiously  enough  the  best  ragtime  has 
not  been  written  by  negroes,  although  Under  the 
Bamboo  Tree  and  the  extraordinary  At  the  Ball 
are  the  work  of  black  men)  have  their  value,  but 
ragtime,  as  it  exists  to-day,  had  not  been  invented 
in  the  Eighteen  Nineties.  The  apotheosis  of  syn- 
copation had  not  begun.  Not  that  syncopation 
is  new  in  music.  Nearly  the  whole  of  Beethoven's 
Seventh  Symphony  is  based  on  it.  Schumann 
scarcely  wrote  two  consecutive  bars  which  are  not 
syncopated.  But  ragtime  syncopation  is  differ- 
ent. Louis  Hirsch  once  pointed  out  to  me  what 
he  considered  its  distinctive  feature.  "  The  mel- 
ody and  harmony  are  syncopated  separately," 
was  his  explanation  and  it  will  have  to  suffice,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  same  thing  is  true  of  the 
prelude  to  Parsifal,  in  which  the  conductor  is 
forced  to  beat  6—4  time  with  one  hand  and  4—4 
with  the  other,  and  of  Spanish  dances,  in  which 
singer,  guitarist,  public,  and  dancer  vie  with  one 
another  to  produce  a  complexity  of  rhythm. 
There  is  abundance  of  syncopation  and  the  most 
esoteric  rhythmic  intricacy  in  Igor  Strawinsky's 
ballet,  The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring,  but  ragtime  is 
not  the  word  to  describe  that  vivid  score,  nor  is 
[272] 


Great  American  Composer 

it  likely  that  any  one  can  find  much  resemblance 
between  Everybody's  Doing  It  or  Ragging  the 
Scale  and  the  jota  or  the  prelude  to  Parsifal. 

There  is  a  theory  that  the  test  of  good  music  is 
whether  you  tire  of  it  or  not.  If  I  were  to  be  al- 
lowed to  apply  this  test  I  would  say  frankly  that 
Die  Walkure  and  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony 
are  not  good  music.  In  a  brilliant  essay  Louis 
Sherwin  explodes  verbal  torpedoes  about  this 
point,  warning  his  readers  not  to  forget  that  if 
they  heard  the  music  of  the  "  classic  "  composers 
exploited  by  every  street  organ  and  cabaret  pianist 
it  would  soon  become  as  intolerable  as  Pretty  Baby 
has  become  during  the  summer  just  past.  Prob- 
ably a  great  many  people  are  tired  of  hearing  Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein,  but  that  does  not  prove  that  it 
is  not  a  good  tune. 

The  works  of  our  best  composers  have  been 
highly  appreciated.  Strawinsky  collects  exam- 
ples of  them  with  assiduity  and  intends  to  use 
them  in  some  of  his  forthcoming  works  just  as 
he  has  used  French  and  Russian  popular  songs 
in  The  Firebird  and  Petrouchka.  Popular  songs, 
indeed,  form  as  good  a  basis  for  the  serious  com- 
poser to  work  upon  as  the  folk-song.  This  is  a 
remark  I  have  been  intending  to  make  for  some 
time  and  I  want  to  emphasize  it.  Take,  for  ex- 
[273] 


Interpretations 


ample,  the  songs  in  the  repertoire  of  Yvette  Guil- 
bert;  some  are  folk-songs  and  some  are  not.  I 
defy  any  one  outside  of  Julien  Tiersot,  Professor 
Jean  Beck,  H.  E.  Krehbiel,  and  one  or  two  others, 
to  tell  you  which  is  which,  and  they  can  tell  you 
because  they  know  all  the  available  collections  of 
French  folk-songs.  Therefore,  when  they  hear 
Mme.  Guilbert  sing  a  melody  that  is  strange  to 
them  they  take  it  for  granted  that  it  must  have 
had  a  composer.  A  folk-song,  according  to  the 
authorities,  is  a  song  which  has  no  composer ;  it 
just  grows.  Some  one  sings  it  one  day  in  the 
fields,  some  one  else  adds  to  it,  and  finally  there  it 
is  before  your  ears,  a  song  known  all  over  the 
country-side,  but  no  one  knows  who  started  it 
rolling.  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot  is  such  a  folk- 
song; it  is  an  extremely  good  example  and  it  has 
been  quoted  with  effect  in  Dvorak's  symphony, 
From  the  New  World.  Funiculi'  Funicula'  is  not 
a  folk-song.  It  is  a  popular  Neapolitan  song 
(most  popular  Neapolitan  songs,  like  0  Sole  Mio, 
Santa  Lucia,  and  Maria  Mari,  are  not  folk-songs) 
written  by  Denza,  a  well-known  composer,  to  cele- 
brate the  funicular  railway  in  Naples.  Neverthe- 
less, no  less  a  personage  than  Richard  Strauss 
quoted  it  bodily  in  his  symphonic  fantasia,  Aus 
Italien,  although  to  be  sure,  he  laboured  under  the 
[274] 


Great  American  Composer 

impression  at  the  time  that  it  was  a  folk-song. 
Similarly  an  American  tune,  It  Looks  to  me  Like 
a  Big  Night  To-night  found  its  way  into  Elektra. 
This  may  have  been  unconscious  assimilation  on 
the  part  of  Strauss ;  at  any  rate  it  is  interesting 
to  note  how  a  vulgar  air  was  transformed  into  the 
beautiful  theme  —  one  of  the  most  expressive  in 
this  music  drama  —  of  the  Children  of  Agamem- 
non. When  Paul  Dukas's  lyric  drama,  Ariane  et 
Barbe-Bleue,  was  produced  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  the  critical  writers,  almost  to  a  man, 
referred  to  the  song  of  the  wives,  which  floats  out 
of  the  cellar  of  the  castle  when  Ariane  opens  the 
door  in  the  first  act,  as  a  Brittany  folk-song.  So 
it  may  very  well  be ;  I  believe  that  Dukas  has  said 
that  it  was.  However,  I  am  informed  on  good 
authority  that  he  composed  it  himself!  It  has  a 
folk-song  air,  to  be  sure,  and  it  is  interesting  to 
catch  its  resemblance  to  the  Berceuse  of  the  Prin- 
cess of  the  Sea  in  Rimsky-Korsakow's  opera, 
Sadko  and  to  the  old  Spanish  tune,  known  to  us 
as  Flee  as  a  Bird,  which  Eugene  Walter  has  used 
with  such  theatrical  effect  in  his  play,  The  Assas- 
sin. La  Jambe  de  Bois,  utilized  by  Strawin- 
sky  in  the  first  scene  of  Petrouchka,  might  be  a 
folk-song  but  it  is  not.  It  is  a  French  popular 
song.  "  When  Elgar  used  a  genuine  Welsh  folk- 
[275] 


Interpretations 


song  in  his  Introduction  and  Allegro  for  Strings  a 
well-known  London  critic,  a  prominent  member  of 
the  Folk-Song  Society,  declared  it  to  be  a  poor 
imitation  of  the  folk-style,"  writes  Ernest  New- 
man. "  When  the  legend  got  about  that  a  certain 
melody  in  In  the  South  was  an  Italian  folk-song, 
the  same  critic  recognized  the  genuine  folk-quality 
in  it,  and  it  was  distinctly  unfortunate  for  him 
that  the  melody  happened  to  be  Elgar's  own  in- 
vention from  first  to  last." 

Thus  it  happens  that  while  many  composers, 
even  such  celebrated  men  (in  their  day)  as  Raff, 
Rubinstein,  Gade,  and  Mendelssohn,  fall  rapidly 
into  oblivion,  the  composer  of  a  good  popular  song 
is  assured  of  immortality  as  such  things  go.  His 
name  may  be  forgotten  but  his  song  will  be  sung 
down  through  the  century  as  often  perhaps  as  any 
folk-song,  probably  a  good  deal  oftener.  Take 
The  Old  Folks  at  Home,  for  example,  or  Dixie,  or 
My  Old  Kentucky  Home,  or  Old  Black  Joe,  and 
you  will  find  that  more  people  know  them  and  sing 
them  and  love  them  to-day,  nearly  three-quarters 
of  a  century  after  they  were  composed,  than  know 
or  sing  or  love  Siring  Low,  Sweet  Chariot,  or  No- 
body Knows  de  Trouble  I've  Seen. 

It  is  my  theory  that  the  American  composers 
of  to-day  (I  am  still  speaking  of  Irving  Berlin, 
[276] 


Great  American  Composer 

Louis  Hirsch,  Lewis  F.  Muir,  and  others  of  their 
kind)  have  brought  a  new  quality  into  music,  a 
spirit  to  be  found  in  the  best  folk-dances  of  Spain, 
in  gypsy,  Hungarian,  and  Russian  popular  music, 
and  a  form  entirely  new.  They  have  been  work- 
ing for  a  livelihood,  to  be  sure,  but  in  that  respect 
they  have  only  followed  the  precedent  established 
by  Offenbach,  Richard  Strauss,  and  Puccini. 

Bernard  Shaw  has  probably  made  a  great  deal 
more  money  than  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  but  no-one 
thinks  of  calling  him  less  of  an  artist  than  Mr. 
Jones  for  that  reason.  Zuloaga  sells  his  pictures 
and  Rodin  his  sculptures  at  very  high  rates. 
There  seems  to  be,  indeed,  no  particular  reason 
why  an  artist  should  not  be  permitted  to  make 
money  if  he  is  able  to  do  so.  It  is  the  nature  of 
some  artists  to  shy  at  the  annoyances  and  compli- 
cations of  business.  The  work  of  others,  Ste- 
phane  Mallarme,  Monticelli,  is  antipathetic  to  the 
crowd  and  always  will  be.  Many  of  the  greatest 
artists,  however,  have  made  the  widest  appeal  (I 
might  mention  Beethoven,  Michael  Angelo,  and 
Tolstoi)  and  some  few  men  of  this  stamp  have  been 
able  to  transform  their  inspirations  into  worldly 
goods.  In  the  circumstances  one  can  scarcely 
blame  Avery  Hopwood  and  Irving  Berlin  for  mak- 
ing money. 

[277] 


Interpretations 


The  most  obvious  point  of  superiority  of  our 
ragtime  composers  (  overlooking  the  fact  that  their 
music  is  pleasanter  to  listen  to)  over  Messrs.  Par- 
ker, Chadwick,  and  Hadley,  is  that  they  are  ex- 
pressing the  very  soul  of  the  epoch  while  their 
more  serious  confreres  are  struggling  to  pour  into 
the  forms  of  the  past,  the  thoughts  of  the  past, 
re-arranged,  to  be  sure,  but  without  notable  ex- 
pression of  inspiration.  They  have  nothing  new 
to  say  and  no  particular  reason  for  saying  it. 
Louis  Hirsch  told  me  of  a  scene  he  once  witnessed 
at  Joseffy's :  A  new  pupil  entered  and  proceeded 
to  play  for  the  master.  Joseffy  interrupted  her. 
"  You  are  not  playing  the  right  notes,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  sure  that  I  am,"  she  replied.  "  Begin 
again."  She  did  so.  "  That's  wrong,"  he  in- 
terrupted again.  "  It's  not  written  like  that." 
"  But  it  is.  Won't  you  look  at  it,  please?  "  He 
examined  the  score  and  apologized,  "  Oh,  it's  some- 
thing of  MacDowell's.  I  see  you  were  right.  I 
thought  you  were  playing  a  transcription  of  the 
Tristan  prelude."  "  I  have  remarked,"  writes 
Turgeniev  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mme.  Viardot, 
"  that  in  imitative  work  the  most  spirituellcs 
are  precisely  the  most  detestable,  when  they  take 
themselves  seriously.  A  sot  copies  servilely ;  a  man 
of  spirit  without  talent  imitates  pretentiously  and 
[278] 


Great  American  Composer 

with  an  effort,  with  the  worst  of  all  efforts,  with 
that  of  wishing  to  be  original." 

Regard  the  form  of  Waiting  for  the  Robert  E. 
Lee.  A  writer  in  the  "  London  Times  "  calls  at- 
tention to  the  fact  that,  although  for  convenience 
it  is  written  out  in  a  rhythm  of  8,  it  is  really  a 
rhythm  of  3  followed  by  a  rhythm  of  5,  proceed- 
ing without  warning  occasionally  into  the  normal 
rhythm  of  8.  It  is  impossible  for  many  trained 
singers  to  read  ragtime  at  all.  They  can  decipher 
the  notes  but  they  do  not  understand  the  con- 
ventions observed  by  the  composers  in  setting  these 
notes  on  paper,  conventions  which  are  A  B  Cs  to 
every  cabaret  performer. 

The  complicated  vigour  of  American  life  has 
expressed  itself  through  the  trenchant  pens  of 
these  new  musicians.  It  is  the  only  music  pro- 
duced in  America  to-day  which  is  worth  the  paper 
it  is  written  on.  It  is  the  only  American  music 
which  is  enjoyed  by  the  nation  (lovers  of  Mozart 
and  Debussy  prefer  ragtime  to  the  inert  and 
saponaceous  classicism  of  our  more  serious-minded 
composers)  ;  it  is  the  only  American  music  which 
is  heard  abroad  (and  it  is  heard  everywhere,  in  the 
trenches  by  way  of  the  victrola,  in  the  Cafe  de 
Paris  at  Monte  Carlo,  in  Cairo,  in  India,  and  in 
Australia),  and  it  is  the  only  music  on  which  the 
[279] 


I  nterp  relations 


musicians  of  our  land  can  build  on  in  the  future. 
If  it  can  be  urged  against  it  that  it  is  a  hybrid 
product,  depending  upon  negro  and  Spanish 
rhythms,  at  least  the  same  objection  can  be  urged 
against  Spanish  music  itself,  which  has  emerged 
from  the  music  of  the  Moors  and  the  Arabs. 
Havelock  Ellis  even  finds  Greek  and  Egyptian  in- 
fluences. 

If  the  American  composers  with  (what  they 
consider)  more  serious  aims,  instead  of  writing 
symphonies  or  other  worn-out  and  exhausted 
forms  which  belong  to  another  age  of  composition, 
would  strive  to  put  into  their  music  the  rhythms 
and  tunes  that  dominate  the  hearts  of  the  people 
a  new  form  would  evolve  which  might  prove  to  be 
the  child  of  the  Great  American  Composer  we  have 
all  been  waiting  for  so  long  and  so  anxiously.  I 
do  not  mean  to  suggest  that  Edgar  Stillman 
Kelley  should  write  variations  on  the  theme  of  Oh 
You  Beautiful  Doll!  or  that  Arthur  Farwell  should 
compose  a  symphony  utilizing  The  Gaby  Glide  for 
the  first  subject  of  the  allegro  and  Everybody's 
Doing  It  for  the  second,  with  the  adagio  move- 
ment based  on  Pretty  Baby  in  the  minor  key.  It 
is  not  my  intention  to  start  some  one  writing  a 
tone-poem  called  New  York,  in  which  all  these 
songs  and  ten  or  fifteen  more  should  be  themati- 
[280] 


Great  American  Composer 

cally  bundled  together  and  finally  wrapped  in  the 
profundities  of  a  fugue.  But  if  any  composer, 
bearing  these  tendencies  in  mind,  will  allow  his  in- 
spiration to  run  riot,  it  will  not  be  necessary  for 
him  to  quote  or  to  pour  his  thought  into  the  mould 
of  the  symphony,  the  string  quartet,  or  any  other 
defunct  form,  to  stir  a  modern  audience.  The 
idea,  manifestly  based  though  it  may  be  on  the 
work  of  Irving  Berlin  and  Louis  Hirsch,  will  ex- 
press itself  in  some  new  way.  Percy  Aldridge 
Grainger,  Igor  Strawinsky,  Erik  Satie,  are  all 
working  along  these  lines,  to  express  modernity  in 
tone,  allowing  the  forms  to  create  themselves,  but 
alas,  none  of  these  men  is  an  American ! 

Americans  are  inclined  to  look  everywhere  but 
under  their  noses  for  art.  It  never  occurs  to 
them  that  any  object  which  has  any  relation  to 
their  everyday  life  has  anything  to  do  with  beauty. 
Probably  the  Athenians  were  much  the  same. 
When  some  stranger  admired  the  classic  pile  on 
the  Acropolis  the  Athenians  in  all  probability 
turned  up  their  noses  with  the  scornful  remark, 
"  That !  Oh,  that's  the  Parthenon ;  it's  been  here 
for  ages  !  "  It  will  be  remembered  that  Mytyl  and 
Tyltyl  in  The  Bluebird  spent  considerable  time  and 
covered  a  good  deal  of  ground  in  their  search  for 
that  rare  ornithological  symbol,  only  to  discover 
[281  ] 


Interpretations 


that  it  existed  all  the  time  at  home,  the  last  place 
in  the  world  where  they  thought  of  looking  for  it. 
Our  Woolworth  and  Flatiron  Buildings  we  are 
likely  to  ignore  while  we  bow  the  knee  before  the 
Chateau  District  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  our  ridicu- 
lous Public  Library.  Chateaux  are  all  very  well 
on  the  Loire  but  imitations  of  them  have  no  place 
in  New  York.  As  for  that  absurd  Roman  Li- 
brary !  Imagine  what  might  have  been  done  with 
a  sky  scraper.  The  present  building,  years  in 
course  of  erection,  has  already  practically  out- 
grown its  usefulness,  and  it  has  not  been  open  to 
the  public  for  a  decade.  It  is  already  too  small 
and  when  one  observes  the  acres  of  space  wasted 
in  corridors  one  groans.  Of  course  a  library  in 
New  York  should  shoot  straight  up  into  space,  at 
least  forty  stories  high.  Speeding  elevators 
should  hoist  the  student  in  a  jiffy  to  whatever 
mental  stimulation  he  required !  R.  J.  Coady  in  a 
very  amusing  magazine  called  "  The  Soil  "  has 
sung  the  praises  of  American  machinery,  and  his 
illustrations  indeed  show  us  magnificent  works  of 
art,  of  the  best  kind  since  they  are  also  utilitarian. 
One  day  Mina  Loy  picked  up  one  of  those  paste- 
board folders  to  which  matches  are  attached, 
which  are  given  away  at  all  cigar  counters  for  the 
use  of  patrons.  "  Some  day  these  will  be  very 
[282] 


Great  American  Composer 

rare  and  then  they  will  be  considered  beautiful," 
she  said,  and  it  is  true.  A  few  years  after  we 
discover  how  to  light  our  cigarettes  with  our  per- 
sonal magnetism,  or  perhaps  stop  smoking  alto- 
gether, such  a  contrivance  will  naturally  assume 
an  interest  for  curious  collectors,  and  become  as 
diverting  an  object  for  a  cabinet  as  a  Japanese 
scent  bottle  or  Capo  di  Monte  porcelain.  The 
Baron  de  Meyer  has  found  it  amusing  to  decorate 
rooms  with  early  Victorian  atrocities  such  as  bas- 
kets of  shells  and  antimacassars,  the  sort  of  thing 
that  went  with  black  walnut  commodes,  knitted 
firescreens,  whatnots,  and  Rogers'  groups  in  the 
days,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  "  Godey's  Lady's 
Book "  reposed  on  the  centre  table  near  the 
Family  Bible.  But  now  they  are  rare,  and  there- 
fore curious ;  they  even  assume  a  certain  beauty 
in  our  eyes. 

In  his  essay  on  "The  Poet"  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  found  occasion  to  remark :  "  We  have 
yet  had  no  genius  in  America,  with  tyrannous  eye, 
which  knew  the  value  of  our  incomparable  mate- 
rials, and  saw,  in  the  barbarism  and  materialism 
of  the  times,  another  carnival  of  the  same  gods 
whose  picture  he  so  much  admires  in  Homer ;  then 
in  the  Middle  Age;  then  in  Calvinism.  Banks 
and  tariffs,  the  newspaper  and  caucus,  Methodism 
[283] 


Interpretations 


and  Unitarianism,  are  flat  and  dull  to  dull  peo- 
ple, but  rest  on  the  same  foundations  of  wonder 
as  the  town  of  Troy  and  the  temple  of  Delphi,  and 
are  as  swiftly  passing  away."  It  is  impossible  to 
appreciate  what  is  constantly  before  our  eyes, 
that  which  is  buzzing  in  our  ears.  We  are  so  ac- 
customed to  ragtime  that  we  scarcely  know  that  it 
exists.  It  would  be  absurd,  you  think,  to  consider 
it  as  art,  because  it  is  so  commonplace.  One 
might  as  easily  consider  the  Woolworth  Building 
or  the  Manhattan  Bridge  works  of  art  and  how 
could  any  one  possibly  do  that?  Just  the  same  I 
am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  Woolworth  Build- 
ing, the  Manhattan  Bridge,  and  that  "  roaring, 
epic  rag-time  tune,"  Waiting  for  the  Robert  E. 
Lee  are  among  the  first  twenty-four  beautiful 
things  produced  in  America.  It  is  no  more  use  to 
imitate  French  or  German  music  than  it  is  to  imi- 
tate French  or  German  architecture.  The  sooner 
we  realize  this  the  better  for  all  of  us. 

January  23,  1917. 


[284] 


The     Importance     of 

Electrical     Picture 

Concerts 


The   Importance   of 

Electrical    Picture 

Concerts 


IN  an  article  called  "  Music  for  Museums  "  I 
once  complained  of  the  unvaried  fare  offered 
to  us  by  the  programme  makers  of  the  sym- 
phony concerts,  a  monotonous  round  of  the  sym- 
phonies of  Beethoven  and  Brahms,  the  overtures 
of  Weber,  and  excerpts  from  Wagner's  music 
dramas.  There  should  be  laws  restricting  orches- 
tral organizations  to  one  Beethoven  symphony  a 
season,  I  asserted,  and  I  berated  orchestral  con- 
ductors for  their  tendency  to  give  the  old  masters 
places  that  should  be  reserved,  at  least  on  occa- 
sion, for  the  younger  generation.  My  remarks 
seem  to  have  been  read  and  taken  seriously  unless 
it  can  be  supposed  that  the  conductors  themselves 
have  seen  the  error  of  their  ways,  for  during  the 
current  season  (1916-17)  we  have  found  Mr. 
Damrosch  and  even  Mr.  Stransky  (insofar  as  he 
has  been  able  so  to  do  without  cracking  the  condi- 
tions of  the  famous  Pulitzer  will,  which  stipulated 
that  the  music  of  Beethoven,  Liszt,  and  Wagner 
should  be  frequently  performed  at  the  concerts  of 
the  Philharmonic  Society)  vying  with  each  other 
[287] 


Interpretations 


in  an  effort  to  discover  unperformed  works  in 
dusty  attics  or  on  the  shelves  of  the  music  shops 
and  libraries,  and  to  give  early  hearings  to  new 
music  by  modern  composers.  Up  to  date,  to  be 
sure,  they  have  ignored  a  good  deal  that  we  might 
conceivably  listen  to  with  pleasure,  but  they  have 
provided  us  with  specimens  previously  unheard,  at 
least  in  these  benighted  parts,  of  the  art  of  Haydn 
and  Mozart ;  Richard  Strauss's  Macbeth,  long 
buried  has  been  dug  up,  and  the  new  Alpine  Sym- 
phony, still-born,  has  been  played;  a  suite  from 
Strawinsky's  earliest  ballet,  The  Firebird,  and 
several  movements  of  a  symphony  by  Zandonai 
have  been  added  to  the  repertoire  of  the  concert 
room;  and  d'Indy's  Istar,  which  we  have  long 
prayed  for,  has  been  revived,  together  with  a  more 
ancient  treasure,  Raff's  Lenore  Symphony,  once 
as  popular  as  Tschaikowsky's  Sixth  Symphony. 
Now  these  are  steps,  tentative  to  be  sure,  in  the 
right  direction,  and  although  a  good  deal  of  this 
music,  some  of  us,  at  the  cost  of  burning  in  hell, 
would  refuse  to  hear  twice,  it  is  certainly  pleas- 
anter  to  hear  it  once  than  to  listen  to  the  standbys 
and  battle  horses  of  the  ordinary  concert  season, 
year  after  year,  a  procedure  which  always  makes 
me  cry  out  with  Shakespeare's  duke,  "  Enough ; 
no  more,  'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before." 
[288] 


Electrical    Picture   Concerts 

Dr.  Muck  in  Boston  does  not  agree  with  me.  He 
even  brings  his  men  to  New  York  to  play  Schu- 
mann's Rhenish  Symphony  and  Rimsky-Korsa- 
kow's  Scheherazade  and  calls  the  result  a  pro- 
gramme! This  strikes  me  as  insolence;  but  it  is 
the  efficient  kind  of  insolence,  like  the  rape  of  Bel- 
gium, which  there  is  no  gainsaying.  The  concerts 
of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  at  Carnegie 
Hall  are  always  sold  out  and  Dr.  Muck  could,  if 
he  so  desired  (and  I  am  expecting  something  of 
the  sort),  make  up  a  programme  consisting  of  the 
Beautiful  Blue  Danube  waltz  and  Beethoven's 
Ninth  Symphony  without  any  appreciable  effect 
on  the  box  office. 

There  is,  of  course,  the  necessity  (so  it  is  re- 
garded) of  educating  the  children.  They  must, 
according  to  the  accepted  theory  of  education, 
hear  what  has  been  done  before  they  hear  what 
will  be  done,  but  it  does  not  seem  necessary  to  turn 
the  best  orchestra  in  this  country  (one  of  the  best 
anywhere)  into  an  educational  institution.  It  is 
too  disheartening  to  realize,  as  some  of  us  must, 
that  the  orchestra  of  orchestras,  which  one  might 
hope  to  find  exploiting  new  tonal  combinations  for 
our  delectation,  is  becoming  a  museum  where  rare 
old  bits  of  tune  may  be  inspected  and  reheard. 

Hope  has  appeared,  however,  in  an  unlooked  for 
[289] 


I  nterp  relations 


quarter.  The  extreme  popularity  of  the  cinema 
theatres  was  not  to  be  guessed  at  a  few  seasons 
ago,  nor  could  any  of  us  have  foretold  that  sym- 
phony orchestras  of  a  size  and  quality  which  com- 
pare more  than  favourably  with  some  of  our  estab- 
lished organizations  would  play  sweet  music  in 
these  temples  of  amusement  from  late  morning  till 
midnight.  No,  this  was  not  to  be  foreseen  or  fore- 
heard.  The  accompaniment  to  the  pictures  is 
scarcely  a  matter  for  congratulation,  as  yet  (as  I 
have  indicated  elsewhere  at  some  length),  but  the 
accompaniment  to  the  pictures  is  only  a  small 
part  of  the  duty  of  an  orchestra  in  a  theatre  de- 
voted to  electrical  dramas.  Now  a  concert  at  a 
moving  picture  show  is  often  a  much  more  serious 
matter  than  an  old  Theodore  Thomas  popular  pro- 
gramme. Symphonies,  concertos,  rhapsodies, 
arias,  overtures  (from  those  of  Dichter  und  Bauer 
and  Guillaume  Tell  to  those  of  Lohengrin  and 
Tschaikowsky's  1812)  all  figure  in  the  scheme. 
At  one  of  these  theatres  more  music  is  performed 
in  one  day  than  an  assiduous  concert-goer  could 
hope  to  hear  in  three  in  the  concert  halls.  The 
duration  of  a  symphony  concert  is  about  two  hours 
with  a  short  intermission,  that  of  a  song  recital 
about  an  hour  and  a  half,  but  an  orchestra,  or  an 
organ,  or  a  piano,  furnishes  a  pretty  continuous 
[290] 


Electrical    Picture    Concerts 

flow  of  melody  in  a  moving  picture  theatre  from 
11  A.  M.  to  11  P.  M.  In  the  large  houses  soloists 
are  sandwiched  in  between  pictures ;  and  some- 
times these  soloists  are  better  performers  than 
those  one  hears  under  more  holy  auspices  —  fre- 
quently they  are  the  same.  The  violinists  play 
Kreisler  .  .  .  and  the  Beethoven  Romances,  and 
pieces  by  Drdla  and  Vieuxtemps  and  de  Beriot  and 
Paganini  and  Mendelssohn.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  first 
movement  of  the  E  minor  concerto  sometimes 
figures  in  moving  picture  theatre  concert  pro- 
grammes where,  at  the  present  day,  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  it  belongs. 

This  might  be  regarded  as  poetic  justice.  It  is 
true,  however,  and  a  fact  that  cannot  be  ignored. 
It  strikes  me  that  from  this  time  on  we  should  hear 
precious  little  about  "  concerts  for  young  people," 
"  educational  concerts,"  "  popular  concerts,"  and 
the  like.  In  the  circumstances  the  directors  of 
our  best  orchestras  can  find  no  flimsy  excuse  for 
playing  too  much  Beethoven,  Schumann,  Schubert, 
or  Wagner,  or  any  of  the  works  of  Greig,  Liszt, 
Mendelssohn,  and  Tschaikowsky.  Brahms,  by 
the  peculiar  veils  of  his  art,  is  protected  for  the 
moment  from  the  moving  picture  theatre  (Bruck- 
ner seems  to  be  protected  from  any  theatre  at  all), 
although  the  violinists  occasionally  perform  his 
[291] 


Interpretations 


gypsy  dances,  and  almost  any  day  I  expect  to 
hear  between  Douglas  Fairbanks  and  Charley 
Chaplin  some  deep-voiced  contralto  sing  the  Sap- 
phische  Ode  or  the  Vergebliches  Stdndclien.  .  .  . 
The  importance  of  the  musical  accompaniment  to 
the  film  and  of  the  intermediate  concert  numbers 
is  obviously  recognized  by  the  managers  of  such 
theatres  as  the  Strand  and  the  Rialto  and  the 
electric  picture  theatres  on  Second  Avenue.  The 
close  attention  with  which  the  music  is  followed 
and  the  very  violent  applause  which  congratulates 
each  performer,  often  exacting  recall  numbers,  are 
ready  proofs  of  the  pleasure  it  gives.  What  is 
known  as  "  cheap  "  music  is  seldom  played.  In 
fact,  there  is  so  much  of  an  air  of  the  concert  room 
about  these  performances  that  I  am  afraid  they 
would  bore  me  even  if  the  music  were  less  familiar 
to  my  ears.  I  should  prefer,  on  these  occasions, 
more  informality,  more  excursions  into  the  rhyth- 
mic realms  conjured  up  for  us  by  Louis  Hirsch 
and  Irving  Berlin.  Nothing  of  the  sort  need  be 
hoped  for.  The  music  performed  is  what  is  known 
to  the  less  tone-educated  multitudes  as  "  classic." 
Any  intelligent  child,  with  a  little  direction  from 
a  musical  elder,  can  pick  up  the  routine  of  the 
concert  and  opera  world  in  a  ten  weeks'  course  at 
the  Rialto  or  the  Strand.  Such  unavoidable  songs 
[292] 


Electrical    Picture   Concerts 

as  the  prologue  to  Pagliacci  and  the  subsequent 
tenor  air  from  the  same  opera,  all  three  of  Dalila's 
airs,  the  waltz  from  La  Boheme,  the  prayer  from 
Tosca,  Celeste  Aida,  Cielo  e  Mar,  0  Paradiso, 
Danny  Deeper,  Les  Filles  de  Cadiz,  the  habanera 
from  Carmen,  Dich  Theure  Halle,  The  Two  Grena- 
diers, Dost  Thou  Know  That  Fair  Land?  from 
Mignon,  the  jewel  waltz  from  Faust,  the  page's 
song  from  Les  Huguenots,  the  Miserere,  the 
prayer  from  Cavalleria  Rusticana,  the  Bach- 
Gounod  Ave  Maria,  Depuis  le  Jour  from  Louise, 
the  gavotte  from  Manon,  Pleurez  mes  Yeux  from 
Le  Cid,  the  drinking  song  from  La  Traviata,  the 
Ava  Maria  from  Otello,  Plus  Grand  dans  son 
Obscurite  from  Gounod's  La  Heine  de  Saba,  and 
Che  Faro  Senza  Euridice?  will  be  as  familiar  to 
his  little  ears  as  Dixey  or  the  stolen  strains  of 
America. 

In  like  manner  he  will  accustom  himself  to  the 
delights  of  Kreisler's  Caprice  Viennois  and  Tam- 
bourin  Chinois,  Beethoven's  two  violin  Romances, 
the  Bach  air  arranged  for  the  G  string,  the  Preis- 
lied  from  Die  Meistersmger,  arranged  by  Wil- 
helmj,  Pierne's  Serenade,  Dvorak's  Humor- 

esque As  for  the  concert  repertoire  he 

will  hear  the  overtures  to  Euryanthe  and  Oberon, 

II  Barbiere  di  Siviglia,   Tannhauser,  SaJcuntala, 

[293] 


Interpretations 


Semiramide  and  such  concert  pieces  and  tone- 
poems  as  the  Danse  Macabre,  Phaeton,  Mephisto 
Waltz,  Leg  Preludes,  some  of  the  orchestrated 
rhapsodies  of  Liszt,  Rimsky-Korsakow's  Spanish 
Caprice,  the  Arlesieime  suite,  the  Peer  Gynt  suite, 
a  number  of  Strauss  waltzes,  Massenet's  Elegie, 
the  entr'actes  from  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna, 
certain  ballet  airs  of  Gluck,  etc. 

He  will  not  be  cognizant  of  the  fact  that  he  is 
getting  what  is  known  as  a  "  musical  education  " 
(the  knowledge  of  and  the  ability  to  hum  tunes 
from  seven-eighths  of  the  aforementioned  pieces 
would  generally  be  considered  as  a  musical  educa- 
tion). Heaven  forefend  that  such  an  idea  be  put 
into  his  head !  The  moving  picture  concerts,  like 
the  pictures  themselves  should  be  classified  as 
amusements.  .  .  .  Only  having  gone  thus  far,  why 
not  go  a  little  farther?  If  one  must  become  ac- 
quainted with  Wagner  in  the  concert  hall  at  all, 
why  not  in  the  electric  picture  theatre?  There 
are  no  excerpts  in  the  present  concert  repertoire 
that  could  not  as  well  be  played  there ;  the  Funeral 
March  from  Gotterdammerung,  the  Lohengrin 
prelude,  the  Good  Friday  SpeU  from  Parsifal,  the 
Ride  of  the  Valkyries,  and  all  the  rest  of  them 
should  be  doled  out  to  the  youngsters  seeking  tone- 
knowledge  and  to  those  oldsters  who  insist  upon 
[294] 


Electrical    Picture   Concerts 

hearing  them  divorced  from  the  text  and  the  stage 
action,  between  the  actualities  and  the  feature 
film.  And  while  you  can  scarcely  ask  Dr.  Muck 
or  Mr.  Damrosch  to  pay  Beethoven  the  compli- 
ment of  giving  him  up  altogether  for  the  time 
being,  his  music  might  be  played  less  by  the  or- 
ganized orchestras  in  view  of  the  hearings  it  would 
receive  at  the  hands  of  the  moving  picture  socie- 
ties. The  first  two  symphonies,  at  any  rate, 
could  be  left  to  their  mercies.  Mendelssohn,  as  a 
symphonist,  might  also  be  tendered  to  their  keep- 
ing. .  .  .  Grieg  and  Liszt,  for  the  most  part  .  .  . 
Rubinstein,  Tschaikowsky,  and  Massenet,  a  good 
deal  of  Saint-Saens  .  .  .  Glazunow  and  Elgar, 
certainly  Elgar  (if  the  moving  picture  audiences 
would  permit  it).  There  is  another  field  for  the 
Strand  Philharmonic  Society,  for  the  band  of  the 
Academy  of  Music :  the  exploitation  of  the  Ameri- 
can composer  who,  one  complains,  never  gets  his 
chance  at  a  hearing.  The  conductors  of  these 
concerts  might  introduce  new  music  by  George  W. 
Chadwick,  Henry  Hadley,  Arthur  Farwell,  Ed- 
gar Stillman  Kelley,  and  Ernest  Schelling. 

If  anything  so  nearly  pleasant  as  this  happens 

in  the  musical  world  (and  there  are,  as  I  stated  in 

the  beginning,  indications  that  it  is  happening), 

think   of  the  space  there  would  be  on  the  pro- 

[295] 


Interp  relations 


grammes  of  our  august  societies  for  the  new 
music  our  curious  ears  are  aching  to  hear !  Think 
of  the  resurrections  of  works  by  Mozart,  Haydn, 
Cesar  Franck,  that  one  never  does  hear.  Per- 
haps Debussy's  La  Mer,  Nocturnes,  and  Images 
(Iberia,  Gigue,  and  Rondes  de  Printemps),  all 
too  infrequently  played,  would  become  more  famil- 
iar. I  should  like  to  listen  at  least  once  to  Al- 
beniz's  Catalonia  and  Turina's  La  Procession  du 
Rocio,  which  Debussy  has  compared  to  a  luminous 
fresco.  .  .  .  Spanish  music  altogether  is  unknown 
in  our  concert  halls.  .  .  .  We  could  hear  more 
Sibelius  and  Moussorgsky  ...  a  little  Borodine 
.  .  .  John  Carpenter  .  .  .  Schoenberg's  Five 
Pieces  .  .  .  Strawinsky's  Scherzo  Fantastique 
and  the  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring.  Why  not  even 
Petrouchka?  Ornstein's  The  Fog,  Ravel,  Dukas 
(has  La  Peri  been  played  here?),  d'Indy,  Chabrier, 
Korngold,  Reger,  Loeffler.  .  .  . 

December  7,  1916. 


[296] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

"  We   must   beware   of  checking   the  fancy   of   the 
novelist  by  pedantic  restrictions  — " 

Andrew  Lang. 


M  odern    M  usical 
Fiction 


IT  has  been  the  fashion  for  musicians  to  sneer 
at  the  attempts  of  literary  men  and  women 
to  celebrate  their  fellow-craftsmen.  Novels 
which  float  in  a  tonal  atmosphere  frequently  do 
contain  a  large  percentage  of  errors,  but  is  this 
not  as  true  of  novels  which  deal  with  electrical 
engineers,  book-binders,  painters,  politicians,  or 
clowns  of  the  circus?  Perhaps  not  quite.  To 
learn  the  technical  phraseology,  the  bibliography, 
the  iconography,  the  history,  the  chronology  of 
music,  a  man  must  devote  a  lifetime  to  its  study. 
Happy  the  musical  pedant  who  does  not  make 
blunders  now  and  again.  They  cannot  be  avoided. 
Even  our  accredited  music  critics,  be  they  ever  so 
wary,  occasionally  fall  into  traps.  In  the  cir- 
cumstances we  should  smile  leniently  on  the  minor 
and  major  mistakes  of  our  minor  and  major  novel- 
ists. To  a  musician,  to  be  sure,  these  are  fre- 
quently ludicrous.  One  of  Ouida's  characters  has 
the  habit  of  playing  organ  selections  from  the 
masses  of  Mendelssohn,  and  the  tenor  in  "  Moths  " 
goes  about  singing  melodies  from  Palestrina !  In 
[299] 


I  nterp  relations 


"  Les  Miserables "  Victor  Hugo  allots  one  of 
Hadyn's  quartets  to  three  violins  and  a  flute.  In 
"  Peg  Woffington "  Charles  Reade  describes  the 
actress  as  whistling  a  quick  movement  and  then 
tells  how  Mr.  Gibber  was  confounded  by  "  this 
sparkling  adagio,"  and  the  following  passage  from 
Marie  Corelli's  "  The  Sorrows  of  Satan "  de- 
serves what  notoriety  this  page  can  afford  it: 
"  An  amiable  nightingale  showed  him  (Prince 
Rimanez)  the  most  elaborate  methods  of  applying 
rhythmed  tune  to  the  upward  and  downward  rush 
of  the  wind,  thus  teaching  him  perfect  counter- 
point, while  chords  he  learnt  from  Neptune." 
Even  George  Moore,  whose  "  Evelyn  Innes  "  is 
generally  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  successful 
attempts  of  a  novelist  to  describe  musicians  and 
music,  in  "  Ave "  speaks  of  Anton  Seidl  as  a 
broken  old  man  who  looked  back  upon  his  life  as  a 
failure.  However,  it  is  easy  to  paraphrase  a 
happy  remark  made  by  Andrew  Lang  in  his  pref- 
ace to  "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  ":  "  The  histori- 
cal novelist  is  not  the  historian."  So  we  may 
say  that  the  musical  novelist  is  not  the  musi- 
cian. 

In   Europe  writers   of  fiction  have   frequently 
chosen   musical   subjects.     Balzac's   "  Gambara  " 
and  "  Massimilla  Doni,"  the  tale  of  a  musical  de- 
[300] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

generate  whose  chief  pleasure  it  is  to  hear  two 
tones  in  perfect  accord,  come  to  mind.  Other 
more  or  less  familiar  French  examples  are  Camille 
Selden's  "Daniel  Vlady  "  (1862),  Guillaume 
Edouard  Desire  Monnaie's  "  Les  Sept  Notes  de  la 
Gamme"  (1848),  George  Sand's  "  Consuelo," 
and  Romain  Holland's  "  Jean-Christophe."  Nor 
should  one  forget  Saint-Landri,  composer  and 
conductor,  who  figures  prominently  in  Guy  de 
Maupassant's  "  Mont  Oriol."  Listen  to  him : 
"  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  finished,  finished,  the 
hackneyed  style  of  the  old  school.  The  melodists 
have  had  their  day.  This  is  what  people  cannot 
understand,  music  is  a  new  art,  melody  in  its  first 
lisping.  The  ignorant  ear  loves  the  burden  of  a 
song.  It  takes  a  child's  pleasure,  a  savage's  pleas- 
ure in  it.  I  may  add  that  the  ears  of  the  people 
or  of  the  ingenuous  public,  the  simple  ears,  will 
always  love  little  songs,  airs,  in  a  word.  It  is  an 
amusement  similar  to  that  in  which  the  frequenters 
of  cafe-concerts  indulge.  I  am  going  to  make  use 
of  a  comparison  in  order  to  make  myself  under- 
stood. The  eye  of  the  rustic  loves  crude  colours 
and  glaring  pictures;  the  eye  of  the  intelligent 
representative  of  the  middle  class  who  is  not  ar- 
tistic loves  shades  benevolently  pretentious  and 
affecting  subjects;  but  the  artistic  eye,  the  refined 
[301] 


Interpretations 


eye,  loves,  understands,  and  distinguishes  the  im- 
perceptible modulations  of  a  single  tone,  the  mys- 
terious harmonies  of  light  touches  invisible  to  most 
people.  .  .  .  Ah !  my  friends,  certain  chords  mad- 
den me,  cause  a  flood  of  inexpressible  happiness  to 
penetrate  all  my  flesh.  I  have  to-day  an  ear  so 
well  exercised,  so  finished,  so  matured,  that  I  end 
by  liking  even  certain  false  chords,  just  like  a  vir- 
tuoso whose  fully  developed  taste  amounts  to  a 
form  of  depravity.  I  am  beginning  to  be  a  viti- 
ated person  who  seeks  for  extreme  sensations  of 
hearing.  Yes,  my  friends,  certain  false  notes. 
What  delights !  How  this  moves,  how  this  shakes 
the  nerves !  how  it  scratches  the  ear  —  how  it 
scratches  !  how  it  scratches  B 

Hans  Andersen  has  written  at  least  two  musical 
tales,  "  The  Improvisatore "  and  "  Only  a  Fid- 
dler." Another  Norse  story  is  Kristofer  Janson's 
"The  Spell-bound  Fiddler."  In  D'Annunzio's 
"  II  Fuoco  "  there  are  long  passages  devoted  to  a 
discussion  of  music ;  Richard  Wagner  is  a  figure  in 
this  novel  and  there  is  an  account  of  his  death  in 
Venice.  There  should  be  mention  of  Henryk  Sien- 
kiewicz's  "  Yanks  the  Musician  and  Other  Tales." 
Tolstoi  made  music  rather  than  a  musician  the 
hero  of  "  The  Kreutzer  Sonata."  It  is  the  first 
and  last  time  that  this  celebrated  sonata  for  violin 
[302] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

and  piano  has  performed  the  offices  of  an  aphro- 
disiac. 

German  literature  is  full  of  examples :  Gustav 
Nicolai's  "  Arabesken  "  (1835)  "Die  Geweihten  " 
(1836),  and  "Die  Musikfeind,"  G.  Blaul's  "Das 
Musikfest"  (1836),  August  Kahlert's  "  Tonle- 
ben  "  (1838),  G.  A.  Keferstein's  "  Konig  Mys  von 
Fidibus"  (1838),  Julius  Becker's  "  Der  Neuro- 
mantiker"  (1840),  Ludwig  Bechstein's  "  Clari- 
nette"  (1840),  Wilhelm  Bachmann's  "  Catinka 
Antalani  "  (1845),  Karl  Goldmick's  "  Der  Unster- 
bliche"  (1848),  Edward  Maria  Oettinger's 
"Rossini"  (1851),  Daniel  Elster's  "  Des  Nacht- 
wachters  Tochter "  (1853),  Eduard  Morike's 
"Mozart  auf  der  Reise  nach  Prag  "  (1856),  A. 
E.  Brachvogel's  "  Friedemann  Bach"  (1859), 
and  H.  Rau's  "Beethoven,"  "Mozart,"  and 
"Weber"  are  a  few.  Elise  Polko's  "Musical 
Tales  "  have  been  translated  into  English.  One 
of  the  best  of  the  German  musical  novels  is  com- 
paratively recent,  Ernst  von  Wolzogen's  "  Der 
Kraft-Mayr,"  translated  by  Edward  Breck  and 
Charles  Harvey  Genung  as  "  Florian  Mayr." 
The  book  gives  an  excellent  picture  of  the  Liszt 
circle  at  Weimar ;  the  composer  is  one  of  the  lead- 
ing figures  of  the  story  and  James  Huneker  as- 
serts that  it  is  the  best  existing  portrait  of  Liszt. 
[303] 


Interpretations 


Of  course  he  is  only  presented  as  a  teacher  in  his 
old  age.  Von  Wolzogen,  it  will  be  remembered, 
supplied  Richard  Strauss  with  the  book  for  his 
music  drama,  Feuersnot,  yet  to  be  given  in  Amer- 
ica. 

Elizabeth  Sara  Sheppard's  "  Charles  Au- 
chester,"  with  which  both  the  names  of  Mendels- 
sohn and  Sterndale  Bennett  are  connected,  is  gen- 
erally spoken  of  as  the  first  musical  novel  in  Eng- 
lish. This  is  not  strictly  true.  There  were 
earlier  attempts.  The  fourth  edition  of  "  Musi- 
cal Travels  Through  England  " —  by  the  late  Joel 
Collier  (George  Veal)  was  issued  in  1776  and 
"  The  Musical  Tour  of  Dr.  Minim,  A.  B.  C.  and 
D.  E.  F.  G.  with  a  description  of  a  new  invented 
instrument,  a  new  mode  of  teaching  music  by  ma- 
chinery, and  an  account  of  the  Gullabaic  system  in 
general "  appeared  in  London  in  1818.  There  is 
further  "Major  Piper;  or  the  adventures  of  a 
Musical  Drone  "  in  five  volumes  by  the  Reverend 
J.  Thompson,  the  second  edition  of  which  ap- 
peared in  1803,  but  there  is  less  about  music  in 
this  novel  than  the  title  would  imply.  Since 
"  Charles  Auchester "  there  has  been  indeed  a 
brood  of  musical  novels.  "  Alcestis,"  dealing  with 
musical  life  in  Dresden  in  the  time  of  Hasse,  ap- 
peared in  1875.  Jessie  Fothergill's  sentimental 
[304] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

story,  "  The  First  Violin  "  was  published  in  1878. 
Sometime  later  it  was  made  into  a  play  for  Rich- 
ard Mansfield.  There  are  many  others:  George 
Meredith's  "Sandra  Belloni "  and  "  Vittoria," 
Kate  Clark's  "The  Dominant  Seventh,"  J. 
Mitchell  Chappie's  "The  Minor  Chord,"  Edna 
Lyall's  "Doreen,"  Rita's  "Countess  Daphne," 
Marion  Crawford's  "  A  Roman  Singer,"  Edward 
L.  Stevenson's  "  A  Matter  of  Temperament," 
George  Augustus  Sala's  "  The  Two  Prima  Don- 
nas," J.  H.  Shorthouse's  "  A  Teacher  of  the 
Violin,"  A.  M.  Bagby's  "  Miss  Traumerei,"  Jane 
Kingsford's  "  The  Soprano,"  Henry  Harland's 
"As  It  Was  Written,"  Henry  Fothergill  Chor- 
ley's  "  A  Prodigy  "  (in  three  volumes,  dedicated 
to  Charles  Dickens),  William  Kennedy's  "The 
Prima  Donna,"  Mrs.  S.  Samuel's  "  Cherry  the 
Singer,"  Hall  Caine's  "  The  Prodigal  Son,"  Allen 
Raine's  "  A  Welsh  Singer,"  Lucas  Cleeve's  "  From 
Crown  to  Cross,"  E.  F.  Benson's  "Sheaves," 
George  du  Maurier's  "  Trilby,"  Anne  Douglas 
Sedgwick's  (Mrs.  Basil  de  Selincourt)  "Tante," 
made  into  a  play  for  Ethel  Barrymore,  Arnold 
Bennett's  "The  Glimpse,"  John  Philip  Sousa's 
"  The  Fifth  String,"  Gustave  Kobbe's  "  All-of-a- 
Sudden  Carmen,"  Delia  Pratt  Grant's  "  Travelli, 
The  Sorceress  of  Music,"  J.  Meade  Falkner's 
[305] 


I  nterp  relations 


"The  Lost  Stradivarius,"  Myrtle  Reed's  "The 
Master's  Violin,"  and  H.  A.  Vachell's  "The 
Other  Side."  At  least  one  of  Walter  Pater's 
tales,  "  Denys  1'Auxerrois,"  is  based  on  a  musical 
theme,  of  a  pagan  boy  who  builds  an  organ,  a 
pretty  fable  told  with  emotion  and  rhythm.  Two 
of  James  Huneker's  twelve  volumes,  "  Meloma- 
niacs  "  and  "  Visionaries,"  are  devoted  to  short 
stories  on  musical  subjects. 

Robert  Hichens  has  written  one  musical  novel, 
"  The  Way  of  Ambition."  The  story  is  that  of 
an  English  composer,  Claude  Heath,  married  to  an 
ambitious  young  woman,  Charmian,  who  deter- 
mines to  "  make  him."  In  this  attempt  she  al- 
most wrecks  his  career  but  after  the  complete  fail- 
ure of  the  opera  she  has  urged  him  to  write,  he 
asserts  himself  and  makes  her  see  the  folly  of  try- 
ing to  direct  the  course  of  an  artist.  The  begin- 
ning of  the  struggle  is  most  amusingly  depicted: 

"  On  the  morning  after  the  house-warming,  when 
a  late  breakfast  was  finished,  but  while  they  were 
still  at  the  breakfast-table  in  the  long  and  narrow 
dining-room,  which  looked  out  on  the  quiet  square, 
Charmian  said  to  her  husband: 

"  '  I've  been  speaking  to  the  servants,  Claude. 
I've  told  them  about  being  very  quiet  to-day.' 

"  He  pushed  his  tea-cup  a  little  away  from  him. 
[306] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

"  '  Why  ?  '  he  asked.  '  I  mean  why  specially  to- 
day? ' 

"  '  Because  of  your  composing.  Alice  is  a  good 
girl,  but  she  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  noisy  some- 
times. I've  spoken  to  her  seriously  about  it.' 

"  Alice  was  the  parlour-maid.  Charmian  would 
have  preferred  to  have  a  man  answer  the  door,  but 
she  had  sacrificed  to  economy,  or  thought  she  had 
done  so,  by  engaging  a  woman.  As  Claude  said 
nothing,  Charmian  continued: 

"  *  And  another  thing !  I've  told  them  all  that 
you're  never  to  be  disturbed  when  you're  in  your 
own  room,  that  they're  never  to  come  to  you  with 
notes,  or  the  post,  never  to  call  you  to  the  tele- 
phone. I  want  you  to  feel  that  once  you  are 
inside  your  own  room  you  are  absolutely  safe,  that 
it  is  sacred  ground.' 

"  *  Thank  you,  Charmian.' 

"  He  pushed  his  cup  farther  away,  with  a  move- 
ment that  was  rather  brusque,  and  got  up. 

"'What  about  lunch  to-day?  Do  you  eat 
lunch  when  you  are  composing?  Do  you  want 
something  sent  up  to  you?  ' 

" « Well,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
want  any  lunch  to-day.  You  see  we've  break- 
fasted late.  Don't  bother  about  me.' 

"  *  It  isn't  a  bother.  You  know  that,  Claudie. 
[307] 


Interpretations 


But  would  you  like  a  cup  of  coffee,  tea,  anything 
at  one  o'clock  ?  ' 

"  *  Oh,  I  scarcely  know.     I'll  ring  if  I  do.' 
"  He  made  a  movement.     Charmian  got  up. 
"  *  I  do  long  to  know  what  you  are  going  to 
work   on,'   she  said,  in  a  changed,  almost  mys- 
terious, voice,  which  was  not  consciously  assumed. 

"  Claude  went  up  to  the  little  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  At  this  moment  he  would  gladly, 
thankfully,  have  gone  anywhere  else.  But  he  felt 
he  was  expected  to  go  there.  Five  women,  his 
wife  and  the  four  maids,  expected  him  to  go  there. 
So  he  went.  He  shut  himself  in,  and  remained 
there,  caged." 

We  subsequently  learn  that  he  passed  the  time 
that  day,  and  many  thereafter  reading  Carlyle's 
"  French  Revolution."  Now  thj|  is  amusing. 

Heath  has  a  leaning  towards  Biblical  subjects 
for  his  inspiration  but  Charmian  urges  him  to 
write  an  opera ;  she  succeeds,  indeed,  in  making  him 
do  so  and  she  also  succeeds  m^sposing  of  it  to 
Jacob  Crayford,  an  American  impresario  who 
seems  faintly  modelled  after  Oscar  Hammerstein. 
A  good  part  of  the  book  is  taken  up  with  descrip- 
tions of  the  writing  of  this  opera  (there  is  a  strik- 
ing passage  descriptive  of  oriental  music),  its 
[308] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

rehearsals,  its  performance,  and  its  failure.  Rob- 
ert Hichens  knows  music  (he  was  at  one  time  a 
music  critic)  and  he  knows  the  stage.  These 
scenes  are  carefully  done,  but  he  asks  the  New 
York  music  critics  to  pass  judgment  on  Heath's 
opera  without  having  seen  or  heard  the  rehearsals. 
This  is  an  inaccuracy.  .  .  .  One  of  the  charac- 
ters, a  Frenchwoman,  says,  "  English  talent  is  not 
for  opera.  The  Te  Deum,  the  cathedral  service, 
the  oratorio  form  in  one  form  or  another,  in  fact 
the  thing  with  a  sacred  basis,  that  is  where  the 
English  strength  lies."  Mme.  Sennier  probably 
overlooked  the  fact  that  England's  two  greatest 
composers,  Purcell  and  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan,  did 
write  operas  and  that  most  of  the  oratorios  popu- 
lar in  England  were  written  by  Germans.  Heath 
desires  to  write  music  for  Francis  Thompson's 
"  The  Hound  of  Heaven  "  to  the  dismay  of  his 
wife  who  reads  him  other  poetry  in  an  attempt 
to  set  his  muse  on  the  right  road.  "  She  re-read 
Rossetti,  Keats,  Shelley,  dipped  into  William  Mor- 
ris,—  Wordsworth  no  —  into  Fiona  Macleod, 
William  Watson,  John  Davidson,  Alfred  Noyes." 
In  the  end,  we  are  led  to  believe,  Heath  was  well 
on  the  road  towards  becoming  another  Elgar. 

W.  J.  Henderson's  musical  romance,  "  The  Soul 
of  a  Tenor,"  is  particularly  wooden  and  lifeless. 
[309] 


Interpretations 


The  characters  are  but  puppets  at  the  behest  of  a 
not  very  skilful  manipulator.  The  story  con- 
cerns Leandro  Baroni  (originally  Leander  Bar- 
rett of  Pittsburg),  a  tenor  at  the  Metropolitan  Op- 
era House,  who  through  a  love  affair  with  a  gypsy 
soprano,  Nagy  Bosanska,  finds  "  his  soul,"  becomes 
a  great  Tristan,  and  returns  to  his  puritanic  and 
faithful  American  wife,  from  whom  he  had  be- 
come estranged.  There  are  glimpses  of  other 
singers,  of  rehearsals  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  of  performances  of  UAfricaine  and  other 
operas.  The  author  disclaims  any  intention  of 
painting  portraits  of  living  models,  with  a  brief 
exception  in  favour  of  magnificent  Lilli  Lehman 
rehearsing  and  singing  Don  Giovanni  at  Salzburg 
(Baroni  is  the  Ottavio),  but  surely  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners,  who  attends  morning  musicales  and  re- 
hearsals at  the  Opera,  is  an  almost  recognizable 
character.  There  are  amusing  pages ;  that  in 
which  the  critics'  views  of  Baroni  are  exposed  is 
the  most  diverting :  "  It  was  universally  con- 
ceded that  he  was  in  some  ways  the  most  gifted 
tenor  since  Jean  de  Reszke.  The  *  Boston  Her- 
ald '  declared  that  he  was  far  greater  because  one 
night,  when  he  had  a  cold,  he  sang  out  of  tune, 
and  this  the  Boston  man  declared  showed  that  he 
was  not  a  mere  vocal  machine.  The  *  Evening 
[310] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

Post '  of  New  York  fell  at  his  feet  because,  when 
made  up  for  Lohengrin,  he  was  the  image  of  Max 
Alvary.  That  he  sang  it  like  Campanini  was  not 
mentioned.  The  *  Tribune '  published  a  depre- 
catory essay  two  columns  long  after  he  sang  Don 
Ottavio  in  Mozart's  inaccessible  Don  Giovanni 
and  a  sprightly  weekly  printed  eight  pictures  of 
him  and  his  shoes  and  stockings,  with  a  Sunday 
page  giving  an  intimate  account  of  his  manner 
of  taking  his  morning  bath  and  dressing  for  the 
day;  The  '  American '  expressed  regrets  about 
him  because,  being  an  American,  he  did  not  advo- 
cate opera  in  English.  The  *  Sun '  went  into 
a  profound  analysis  of  his  vocal  method  and  his 
treatment  of  recitative  in  all  schools  of  opera, 
showing  thereby  that  he  was  a  greater  master  of 
the  lyric  art  than  Farinelli  or  Garat,  singers  of 
whom  the  readers  of  the  article  had  never  heard, 
and  about  whom,  therefore,  they  cared  absolutely 
nothing.  The  *  Times '  asserted  that  he  had 
no  method  at  all,  and  that  this  was  what  made 
him  a  truly  great  singer."  Erudition  steeps  this 
pen,  but  why  does  Mr.  Henderson,  himself  a  music 
critic,  and  therefore  not  liable  to  error,  spell 
Bruckner  with  an  umlaut? 

There  are  points  of  interest  about  Willa  Sibert 
Gather's  recent  musical  novel,  "  The  Song  of  the 
[311] 


Interpretations 


Lark,"  although  I  do  not  think  the  book  as  a 
whole  can  be  considered  successful.  The  Swed- 
ish-American singer  who  plods  through  its  pages 
at  the  behest  of  the  eyes  of  the  reader  was  un- 
doubtedly suggested  by  Olive  Fremstad.  The 
first  hundred  pages  of  the  book  are  the  best. 
Thea  Kronborg  growing  up  in  Moonstone,  Colo- 
rado, and  her  childhood  friends  are  thoroughly 
delightful.  The  study  years  in  Chicago  and  the 
love  scenes  in  the  home  of  the  Cliff  Dwellers  are 
neither  so  interesting  nor  so  true.  Kronborg, 
the  artist,  does  not  seem  to  be  realized  by  Miss 
Gather.  The  outlines  of  the  completed  figure  are 
much  more  vague  than  those  of  the  original  rough 
sketch.  Indeed  as  Thea  grows  older  she  seems  to 
elude  the  author  more  and  more.  .  .  .  Thea's  ar- 
tistic soul  is  born  before  Jules  Breton's  picture 
in  the  Chicago  Art  Institute ;  hence  the  title.  .  .  . 
The  fable  is  weak  and  the  men  who  fill  in  the  later 
pages  are  mere  lay  figures.  There  is  a  brief 
glimpse  of  Theodore  Thomas  and  an  arresting  de- 
scription of  Pauline  Viardot  as  Orphee.  H.  R. 
Haweis's  "  Musical  Memories "  play  a  part  in 
Thea's  early  life.  A  Chicago  soprano  is  drawn 
rather  skilfully.  .  .  .  Thea  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  sings  Elsa,  Sieglinde,  Venus  and 
Elizabeth,  Leonora  (in  Trovatore),  and  Fricka 
[312] 


Modern     Musical     Fiction 

in  Das  Rheingold.  Here  is  a  passage  which  de- 
scribes Olive  Fremstad  as  well  as  it  does  Thea 
Kronborg:  "  It's  the  idea,  the  basic  idea,  pulsing 
behind  every  bar  she  sings.  She  simplifies  a  char- 
acter down  to  the  musical  idea  it's  built  on,  and 
makes  everything  conform  to  that.  The  people 
who  chatter  about  her  being  a  great  actress  don't 
seem  to  get  the  notion  of  where  she  gets  the  no- 
tion. It  all  goes  back  to  her  original  endow- 
ment, her  tremendous  musical  talent.  Instead  of 
inventing  a  lot  of  business  and  expedients  to  sug- 
gest character,  she  knows  the  thing  at  the  root, 
and  lets  the  musical  pattern  take  care  of  her. 
The  score  pours  her  into  all  those  lovely  postures, 
makes  the  light  and  shadow  go  over  her  face, 
lifts  her  and  drops  her.  She  lies  on  it,  the  way 
she  used  to  lie  on  the  Rhine  music.  Talk  about 
rhythm ! " 

There  are  many  plays  on  musical  subjects: 
The  Broken  Melody,  La  Tosca,  The  Greater  Love, 
The  Music  Master,  The  Climax,  The  Tongues  of 
Men,  Edward  Knoblauch's  Paganini,  Hermann 
Bahr's  The  Concert,  and  Rene  Fauchois's  Bee- 
thoven are  a  few.  Frank  Wedekind  has  written 
two  plays  which  may  be  included  in  the  list:  Der 
Kammers anger,  presented  as  The  Tenor  by  the 
Washington  Square  Players,  and  Musik. 
[  313  ] 


II 

Tower    of     Ivory 


IT  was  to  have  been  expected  that  Gertrude 
Atherton,  who  allows  no  ink  to  drop  idly 
from  her  pen,  would  turn  her  attention  to  the 
American  girl  as  opera  singer;  in  a  flamboyant 
and  breathless  romance,  "  Tower  of  Ivory,"  she 
has  done  so,  on  the  whole  creditably.  There  is 
considerable  of  reality  about  Margarete  Styr, 
once  Peggy  Hill  of  New  York.  Mrs.  Atherton 
has  wisely  set  her  history  back  in  the  last  days 
of  the  mad  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  for  there  might 
have  been  recognition  scenes  if  she  had  made  it 
contemporaneous.  The  author  has  admitted  that 
Mottl-Fassbender  was  her  model,  but  she  has  al- 
lowed her  imagination  full  rein.  Mottl-Fass- 
bender is  not  an  American,  nor  has  she  ever  sug- 
gested a  "  tower  of  ivory  " ;  however,  she  cannot 
be  held  responsible  for  Styr's  early  life.  Mrs. 
Atherton's  heroine  was  born  in  a  mining  camp, 
the  daughter  of  a  poor  miner,  and  passes  her 
childhood  in  dirty  drudgery.  Seduced  by  a  drum- 
mer, she  is  taken  to  New  York  where  she  passes 
from  one  man  to  another  until  she  falls  into  the 
hands  of  a  millionaire  who  begins  her  musical 
education.  By  this  time,  however,  she  is  so  dis- 
[314] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

gusted  with  the  male  sex  that  she  runs  away  pres- 
ently to  join  a  travelling  theatrical  troupe.  In 
a  short  Pacific  voyage,  from  one  town  to  another, 
she  suffers  shipwreck  and  her  life  is  saved  by  a 
boy  who  ties  her  to  a  floating  mast,  projecting 
above  the  angry  waves,  and  who  clings  to  it  des- 
perately himself  as  there  is  no  more  rope.  After 
several  hours  she  sees  him  drop  below  where  he 
is  washed  away,  the  helpless  prey  of  the  sea. 
At  this  moment  her  soul  is  born,  what  Mrs.  Ather- 
ton  calls  the  "  Soul  of  an  Artist."  Remembering 
her  voice  she  goes  to  Europe.  She  begins  to  read. 
One  of  the  few  books  mentioned  is  "  A  Rebours." 
These  study  years  or  months  are  elided.  They 
are  dangerous  ground  for  a  novelist.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  George  Moore  neglected  to  fur- 
nish them  in  "  Evelyn  Innes."  When  we  first 
meet  the  Styr,  indeed,  she  has  erased  her  past, 
has  become  the  reigning  Wagnerian  singer  in 
Munich,  the  favourite  artist  of  Ludwig,  and  an 
ascetic.  She  lives  alone  and  is  rarely  to  be  seen 
except  on  the  stage.  Shut  up  in  her  tower  over 
the  Isar  her  personal  life  becomes  a  mystery. 
Through  this  isolation  a  young  Englishman, 
charmingly  characterized,  much  better  done  on 
the  whole  than  the  Styr  herself,  breaks.  As  he 
enters  her  house  Mrs.  Atherton  describes  it  to 
[315] 


Interpretations 


us.  It  is  a  relief  to  discover  that  the  Styr  has 
as  bad  taste  in  house  decoration  as  most  singers. 
Have  you  ever  been  in  a  prima  donna's  apart- 
ment? 

"She  felt  some  vanity  in  displaying  her  salon 
to  one  she  knew  instinctively  possessed  a  culti- 
vated and  exacting  taste.  It  was  a  large  room 
on  the  right  of  the  entrance,  with  a  row  of  alcoves 
on  the  garden  side,  each  furnished  to  represent 
one  of  the  purple  flowers.  The  wood-work  was 
ivory  white;  the  silk  panels  of  the  same  shade 
were  painted  with  lilacs,  pansies,  asters,  orchids, 
or  lilies,  as  if  reflecting  the  alcoves.  There  was 
but  one  picture,  a  full-length  portrait  of  Styr  as 
Brynhildr,  by  Lenbach.  The  spindle-legged  fur- 
niture was  covered  with  pale  brocades  and  not 
aggressive  of  any  period.  It  was  distinctly  a 
'  Styr  Room,'  as  her  admirers,  who  were  admitted 
on  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month,  had  long  since 
agreed,  while  sealing  it  with  their  approval." 

Styr's  repertoire  includes  the  Briinnhildes, 
Isolde,  Kundry,  Elizabeth  and  Venus,  Iphigenia, 
the  Countess  in  Figaro,  Katherina  in  The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew,  Leonora  in  Fidelio,  Donna  Anna, 
Aida,  and  Dido  in  Les  Troyens,  She  is  indeed 
the  "  hochdramatisch  "  of  the  Hof theater  in 
Munich.  She  gives  command  performances  of 
[316] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

Parsifal,  Gotterdammerung,  and  Tristan  before 
Ludwig,  always  at  midnight,  the  favourite  hour 
of  that  remarkable  monarch.  On  one  occasion 
she  smuggles  her  young  Englishman  in  and  he 
hears  the  king  heave  a  deep  sigh,  presumably  be- 
cause after  death  he  will  have  no  further  oppor- 
tunities for  enjoying  the  music  of  Wagner.  .  .  . 
When  we  first  meet  the  Styr  she  sings  alone,  by 
command,  at  Neuschwanstein,  the  country  palace 
of  Ludwig,  at  midnight  and  out  of  doors,  on  a 
bridge  which  crosses  a  mountain  torrent.  Her 
selections,  chosen  by  the  monarch,  include  Kun- 
dry's  appearance  to  Klingsor,  Act  II,  Scene  I  of 
Parsifal,  part  of  the  ensuing  scene,  the  Cry  of  the 
Valkyries,  and  finally  a  group  of  songs.  This 
reads  very  much  like  a  description  of  Mme.  Gad- 
ski  appearing  with  the  Philharmonic  Society. 
The  Styr,  however,  sings  unaccompanied,  without 
orchestra  or  piano ! 

There  is  a  long  account  of  her  Isolde.  We 
are  told  that  by  the  expression  of  her  eyes  alone 
she  can  fix  the  mood  of  her  audience.  Her 
powers  of  suggestion  are  uncanny.  On  one  occa- 
sion she  shows  the  Englishman  how  she  would  play 
Mrs.  Alving: 

"  *  I  won't  permit  you  to  question  my  right  to 
be  called  an  actress !  You  remember  the  scene  in 
[317] 


Interpretations 


Ghosts  in  which  Mrs.  Alving  listens  to  Oswald's 
terrible  revelation  ?  ' 

"  He  nodded,  holding  his  breath.  She  did  not 
rise,  nor  repeat  a  word  of  the  play,  but  he  watched 
her  skin  turn  grey,  her  muscles  bag,  the  withering 
cracking  soul  stare  through  her  eyes.  Every 
part  of  her  face  expressed  a  separate  horror,  and 
he  could  have  sworn  that  her  hair  turned  white." 

Mrs.  Siddons,  according  to  report,  could  move 
a  roomful  of  people  to  tears  merely  by  repeating 
the  word,  "  Hippopotamus  "  with  varying  stress. 

As  Isolde  the  Styr  gives  another  example  of 
this  power,  "  staring  at  the  phials  in  the  casket 
while  the  idea  of  death  matured  in  her  desperate 
brain, —  death  for  herself  as  well  as  for  the  man 
that  betrayed  her, —  raised  her  head  slowly,  her 
body  to  its  full  height.  She  looked  the  very 
genius  of  death,  a  malign  fate  awaiting  its  mo- 
ment to  settle  upon  the  ripest  fruits,  the  blithest 
hopes.  A  subtle  gesture  of  her  hand  seemed  to 
deprive  it  of  its  flesh,  leave  it  a  talon  which  held 
a  scythe;  by  the  same  token  one  saw  the  skeleton 
under  the  blue  robe;  her  mouth  twisted  into  a 
grin,  her  eyes  sank.  It  was  all  over  in  half  a 
minute,  it  was  but  a  fleeting  suggestion,  but  it 
flashed  out  upon  every  sensitive  soul  present  a 
picture  of  the  charnel  house,  the  worm,  death 
[318] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

robbed  of  its  poetry,  stripped  to  the  bones  by 
the  hot  blasts  from  that  caldron  of  hate." 

We  learn  that  "  No  other  Isolde  has  ever  been 
as  great  as  Styr,  for  no  other  has  been  able  to 
suggest  this  ferocious  approach  of  a  devastating 
force,  this  hurricane  sweeping  across  the  mind's 
invisible  plain,  tearing  at  the  very  foundations  of 
life.  And  all  this  she  expressed  before  singing 
a  note,  with  her  staring  moving  eyes,  her  eloquent 
body,  still  and  concealed  as  it  was,  a  gesture  of 
the  hand.  .  .  .  When  she  started  up,  crying  out 
to  the  wind  and  waves  to  shatter  the  ship  the  pas- 
sion in  her  voice  hardly  expressed  the  rage  con- 
suming her  in  plainer  terms  than  that  first  long 
silent  moment  had  done." 

Brain,  says  Styr,  all  brain :  " '  You  give  no 
stage  artist  the  credit  of  a  brain,  I  suppose? 
Can  you  imagine  a  born  actress  —  born,  mind 
you  —  living  her  part,  yet  never  quite  shaking 
loose  from  that  strong  grip  above?  That  is 
what  is  meant  by  "  living  a  part."  You  abandon 
yourself  deliberately  —  with  the  whole  day's  prep- 
aration —  into  that  other  personality,  almost  to 
a  soul  in  possession,  and  are  not  your  own  self 
for  one  instant ;  although  the  purely  mental  part 
of  that  self  never  relaxes  its  vigilance  over  the 
usurper.  It  is  a  curious  dual  experience  that 
[319] 


Interpretations 


none  but  an  artist  can  understand.  Of  course 
that  perfect  duality  is  only  possible  after  years 
of  study,  work,  practical  experience,  mastery  of 
technique.  .  .  .  Most  singers  have  no  brain,  no 
mental  life;  they  must  be  taught  their  roles  like 
parrots,  they  put  on  a  simulation  of  art  with 
their  costumes  which  deceives  the  great  stupid 
public  and  touches  no  one.  Mere  emotionalism, 
animal  robustness,  they  call  temperament.  I 
strengthened  and  developed  my  brain  during  those 
terrible  years  to  such  an  extent  that  I  now  act 
out  of  it,  think  myself  into  every  part,  relying 
not  at  all  upon  the  instructions  of  the  uninspired, 
nor  upon  chance.' ' 

However,  even  brainy  prima  donnas  with  dis- 
gust for  all  men  in  their  hearts  are  occasionally 
exposed  to  emotional  storms,  thinks  Mrs.  Ather- 
ton.  The  departure  of  Ordham  for  England  and 
his  subsequent  marriage  (there  had  never  been 
talk  of  love  or  marriage  between  Ordham  and 
Styr;  their  relationship  up  to  this  time  had  been 
idealistic)  threw  Styr  into  a  frightful  state.  The 
bad  news  came  to  her  on  a  Tristan  night.  She 
flung  aside  her  carefully  studied  gestures,  her  pre- 
pared effects,  and  stormed  through  the  music 
drama.  Afterwards  she  felt  that  this  perform- 
ance had  been  so  electrifying  that  any  return  to 
[  320  J 


Tower    of    Ivory 

her  original  conception  of  the  role  would  be  con- 
sidered as  an  anti-climax.  So  she  steadfastly 
refused  to  sing  Isolde  in  Munich  again.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  this  was  probably  the  worst  per- 
formance she  had  ever  given. 

There  are  descriptions  of  the  singer  as  Briinn- 
hilde :  "  In  Die  Walkiire  she  made  her  alter- 
nately the  jubilant  sexless  favourite  of  Wotan, 
shadowed  subtly  with  her  impending  womanhood, 
and  the  goddess  of  aloof  and  immutable  calm, 
Will  personified,  even  when  moved  to  pity.  In 
Gotterdammerung,  particularly  of  late,  she  had 
portrayed  her  as  woman  epitomized,  arguing  that 
all  great  women  had  the  ichor  of  the  goddess  in 
their  veins,  and  that  primal  woman  was  but  the 
mother  of  sex  modified  (sometimes)  but  not  re- 
made. In  the  last  act  of  Siegfried  her  voice  was 
wholly  dramatic  and  expressed  her  delight  at  com- 
ing into  her  woman's  inheritance  in  ecstatic  cries, 
almost  shouts,  which  were  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  any  that  heard  them,  and  stirred  the  primal 
inheritance  in  the  veriest  butterfly  of  the  court. 
In  this  beautiful  love  scene  of  Gotterdammerung, 
the  last  of  the  tetralogy,  her  voice  was  lyric, 
rich  and  round  and  full,  as  her  voice  must  always 
be,  but  stripped  of  its  darker  quality,  and  while 
by  no  means  angelic,  a  character  with  which  she 
[321  ] 


I  nterp  relations 


could  invest  it  when  portraying  the  virgin  Eliza- 
beth, was  as  sweet  and  clear  and  triumphant  as 
if  bent  upon  giving  the  final  expression  to  the  first 
love  of  woman  alloyed  with  knowledge."  Some- 
where else  in  the  book  there  is  another  clue  to 
her  conception  of  the  role  of  Briinnhilde :  "  Of 
late  Styr  had  played  the  character  consistently 
to  the  end  as  a  woman.  But  to-night  she  ap- 
peared to  defer  once  more  to  Wagner  —  possibly 
to  the  King  —  and  to  be  about  to  symbolize  the 
'  negation  of  the  will  to  live,'  the  eternal  sacri- 
fice of  woman,  the  immolation  of  self;  although 
she  had  contended,  and  for  that  reason  sang  no 
more  at  Bayreuth,  that  such  an  interpretation 
was  absurd  as  a  finale  for  Briinnhilde,  no  matter 
what  its  beauty  and  truth  in  the  abstract.  The 
gods  were  doomed,  her  renouncement  of  life  did 
not  save  them,  and  as  for  the  sacrifice  of  woman 
to  man,  that  she  had  accomplished  twice  over. 
Briinnhilde  died  as  other  women  had  died  since, 
and  doubtless  before,  in  the  hope  of  uniting  with 
the  spirit  of  her  man,  and  because  life  was  become 
abhorrent." 

In  the  scene  with  Siegfried  disguised  as  Gunther 
Styr  made  another  of  those  physical  transforma- 
tions which  so  startled  her  audiences ;  at  the  close 
of  the  drama  she  mounted  her  horse  and   rode 
[322] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

straight  into  the  flames.  Mrs.  Atherton  says  that 
only  "  Vogel  "  had  done  this  before  her.  Prob- 
ably she  refers  to  Therese  Vogl,  a  favourite  Wag- 
nerian  singer  in  Munich  in  the  Eighties  and  early 
Nineties.  According  to  report  Vogl  (or  was  it 
Rosa  Sucher?)  did  indeed  mount  the  horse  and 
charge  into  the  wings,  whereupon  a  dummy 
mounted  on  a  papier  mache  horse  was  swung 
across  the  back  of  the  stage  into  the  flames.  A 
substitution  of  this  sort  is  in  vogue  in  the  Witch's 
ride  in  Hansel  und  Gretel  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  There  have  been  those  who  have 
danced  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils  in  Salome; 
there  have  been  tenors  who  have  taken  the  ter- 
rific falls  of  Fra  Diavolo  or  of  Matha  in  Sa- 
lammbo,  but  I  have  never  heard  of  a  Briinnhilde 
who  has  been  brave  enough  to  ride  her  Grane 
into  the  flames.  Not  trusting  my  own  memory 
I  asked  Tom  Bull,  who  has  seen  all  the  perform- 
ances of  the  Wagner  dramas  at  the  Metropolitan 
since  they  were  first  produced  there.  He  said 
that  no  soprano  had  ever  attempted  the  feat  at 
that  house.  "  We've  had  but  one  Briinnhilde  that 
would  dare  do  it  and  that's  Fremstad.  She  never 
did,  however.  No  one  ever  did  here.  Why,  we've 
had  the  same  horse  for  years,  a  tame  old  creature, 
and  even  now  he  baulks  on  occasion."  As  luck 
[323] 


I  nterp  relations 


would  have  it  that  very  day  this  nag  gave  the 
occupants  of  the  stage  some  trouble ! 

There  is  an  amusing  scene  depicting  the  effect 
of  Wagner  on  the  artistic  temperament.  Those 
of  us  who  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  have 
visited  singers  in  their  dressing-rooms  on  such 
occasions  will  appreciate  the  following  account: 

"  He  (Ordham)  had  made  his  way  across  the 
back  of  the  stage,  passed  opened  doors  of  supers 
who  were  frankly  disrobing,  too  hungry  to  observe 
the  minor  formalities,  and  was  approaching  the 
room  of  the  prima  donna,  when  its  door  was  sud- 
denly flung  open,  a  little  man  was  rushed  out  by 
the  collar,  twirled  round,  and  hurled  almost  at 
his  feet.  The  Styr,  her  hair  down,  her  face  livid, 
her  eyes  blazing  shouted  hoarsely  at  the  object 
of  her  wrath,  who  took  to  his  heels.  The  intend- 
ant  rushed  upon  the  scene.  Styr  screamed  out 
that  the  minor  official  had  dared  come  to  her 
dressing-room  with  a  criticism  upon  the  set  of 
her  wig,  and  that  if  ever  she  were  spoken  to  again 
at  the  close  of  a  performance  by  any  member  of 
the  staff,  from  the  intendant  down,  she  would 
leave  Munich  the  same  night.  The  great  func- 
tionary fled,  for  she  threatened  to  box  his  ears 
unless  he  took  himself  out  of  her  sight,  and  the 
Styr,  stormed  up  and  down,  beat  the  scenery 
[324] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

with  her  hands,  stamped,  hissed,  her  pallor  deep- 
ening every  second,  until  it  was  like  white  fire. 
Ordham  half  fascinated,  half  convulsed,  at  this 
glimpse  of  the  artistic  temperament  in  full  blast, 
stared  at  her  with  his  mouth  open.  She  looked 
like  some  fury  of  the  coal-pit,  flying  up  from  the 
sooty  galleries  on  the  wings  of  her  voice.  Her 
words  had  been  delivered  with  a  strange  broad 
burring  accent,  which  Ordham  found  more  puz- 
zling than  her  tantrum. 

"  Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  him.  If  pos- 
sible her  fury  waxed. 

"  *  You !  You ! '  she  screamed.  *  Go !  Get  out 
of  here!  How  dare  you  come  near  me?  I  hate 
you !  I  hate  the  whole  world  when  I  have  finished 
an  opera !  They  ought  to  give  me  somebody  to 
kill !  Go !  I  don't  care  whether  you  ever  speak 
to  me  again  or  not  — ' ' 

Later  she  apologizes  and  explains :  "  '  It  is 
all  over  a  few  hours  later,  after  I  have  taken  a 
long  walk  in  the  Englischergarten,  then  eaten  a 
prosaic  supper  of  cold  ham  and  fowl,  eggs  per- 
chance, and  salad !  But  for  an  hour  after  these 
triumphs  I  pay  !  I  pay ! '  Mrs.  Atherton,  per- 
haps, has  idealized  her  heroine  when  she  gives  her 
better  manners  in  private  life :  "  *  Tantrums  do 
not  hurt  a  prima  donna ;  in  fact  they  are  of  use 
[325] 


Interpretations 


in  inspiring  the  authorities  with  awe.  But  in 
private  life  —  well,  the  price  I  sometimes  had  to 
pay  was  too  high.  I  soon  stopped  throwing 
things  about  like  a  fishwife;  and  all  the  rest  of 
it.'  " 

Evelyn  Innes,  it  will  be  remembered,  gave  her- 
self to  Ulick  Dean  after  a  performance  of  Tristan. 
One  of  the  characters  of  "  The  Way  of  Ambition  " 
says :  "  The  Empress  Frederick  told  a  friend  of 
mine  that  no  one  who  had  not  lived  in  Germany, 
and  observed  German  life  closely,  could  under- 
stand the  evil  spread  through  the  country  by 
Wagner's  Tristan."  "  It  is  no  wonder,"  says 
Mrs.  Atherton,  "  the  Germans  keep  on  calling  for 
more  sensation,  more  thrill  with  an  insatiety  which 
will  work  the  ruin  of  music  and  drama  in  their 
nation  unless  some  genius  totally  different  from 
Wagner  rises  and  diverts  them  into  safer  chan- 
nels. Beyond  Wagner  in  his  own  domain  there 
is  nothing  but  sensationalism.  Rather  he  took 
all  the  gold  out  of  the  mine  he  discovered  and  left 
but  base  alloy  for  the  misguided  disciples." 

Margarete  Styr  was  not  engaged  by  Walter 
Damrosch  to  sing  in  New  York  although  there 
seems  to  have  been  correspondence  between  them. 
But  she  did  sing  in  London  under  Hans  Richter 
and  made  a  great  success  there.  Her  roles  seem 
[326] 


Tower    of    Ivory 

to  have  been  the  three  Briinnhildes,  Isolde,  and 
Elizabeth.  It  was  not  felt  that  London  was 
sophisticated  enough  to  sit  through  her  very 
voluptuous  representation  of  Venus ;  so  an  older, 
fatter  singer  was  put  in  the  part  and  much  of 
the  scene  was  cut.  Styr  made  her  appearance  as 
Elizabeth  in  the  second  act  after  the  boxes  were 
filled.  Queen  Victoria,  having  heard  rumours  of 
Peggy  Hill's  life  in  New  York,  refused  to  meet  the 
Styr  socially,  did  not  entertain  her  at  Bucking- 
ham or  Windsor,  but  everybody  else  in  London 
seems  to  have  invited  her. 


[327] 


Ill 

Love    Among    the    Artists 


BERNARD  SHAW  wrote  "  Love  Among  the 
Artists  "  in  1881,  but  of  all  his  published 
novels  (the  first  of  the  five  has  never 
been  printed)  it  was  the  last  to  reach  the  public; 
it  was  published  serially  in  "  Our  Corner "  in 
1887-8.  The  author  has  never  professed  admi- 
ration for  any  of  these  early  works.  Dixon  Scott 
calls  Shaw  the  "  son  of  Donizetti's  Lucrezia 
Borgia,"  and  the  Irishman  concedes  the  truth  of 
this  description  when  he  says  "  I  was  brought  up 
in  an  atmosphere  in  which  two  of  the  main  con- 
stituents were  Italian  opera  and  complete  free- 
dom of  thought."  He  has  written  musical  criti- 
cism and  one  complete  book  on  music,  "  The 
Perfect  Wagnerite " ;  all  through  his  work  run 
references  to  the  tonal  art,  expertly  expressed  and 
adroitly  placed.  "  Love  Among  the  Artists  "  is 
far  from  being  a  completely  satisfactory  novel 
but  on  its  musical  side,  at  least,  it  is  very  divert- 
ing, and  it  is  much  more  modern  in  its  comments 
than  most  of  the  musical  novels  of  a  couple  of 
decades  later.  In  a  preface  the  author  explains 
his  purpose,  "  I  had  a  notion  of  illustrating  the 
[328] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

difference  between  the  enthusiasm  for  the  fine  arts 
which  people  gather  from  reading  about  them,  and 
the  genuine  artistic  faculty  which  cannot  help 
creating,  interpreting,  or  at  least  unaffectedly  en- 
joying music  and  pictures."  There  are  actresses 
and  painters  in  the  book  but  the  most  clearly  out- 
lined characters  are  musicians,  an  English  com- 
poser (did  such  a  good  one  ever  exist?)  and  a 
Polish  pianist.  Both  are  delightfully  limned  and 
although  it  has  been  my  misfortune  up  to  date 
to  meet  softer-spirited  and  less  noble-minded  com- 
posers than  Owen  Jack  who  is  done  in  the  grand 
manner,  modelled  somewhat  after  Beethoven,  at 
least  the  lady  pianist  is  like  the  average  interpre- 
tative instrumental  artist. 

We  first  meet  Mme.  Aurelie  Szczymp^a  at  the 
rehearsal  of  Jack's  Fantasia  by  the  Antient 
Orpheus  Society.  She  has  consented  to  introduce 
the  new  music  to  England ;  indeed  so  highly  does 
she  regard  the  composition,  although  she  does 
not  know  the  composer,  that  she  has  prevailed 
upon  the  directors  of  the  Society  to  reverse  their 
unfavourable  decision  in  regard  to  its  perform- 
ance. Accompanied  by  her  mother  she  comes  in 
bundled  in  furs,  and  asks  the  conductor  to  re- 
hearse the  Fantasia  first,  although  she  avows  her 
intention  of  remaining  to  hear  the  orchestra  go 
[329] 


Interpretations 


through  with  the  rest  of  the  programme.  Jack 
is  allowed  to  conduct  his  own  work.  The  first 
section  goes  pretty  well. 

"  But  when  a  theme  marked  andante  cantabile, 
which  formed  the  middle  section  of  the  fantasia, 
was  commenced  by  the  pianist,  Jack  turned  to 
her ;  said  '  Quicker,  quicker.  Plus  vite  ';  and  be- 
gan to  mark  his  beat  by  striking  the  desk.  She 
looked  at  him  anxiously;  played  a  few  bars  in 
the  time  indicated  by  him ;  and  then  threw  up  her 
hands  and  stopped. 

"  '  I  cannot,'  she  exclaimed.  '  I  must  play  it 
more  slowly  or  not  at  all.' 

"  *  Certainly,  it  shall  be  slower  if  you  desire 
it,'  said  the  elder  lady  from  the  steps.  Jack 
looked  at  her  as  he  sometimes  looked  at  Mrs. 
Simpson.  *  Certainly  it  shall  not  be  slower,  if 
all  the  angels  desired  it,'  he  said,  in  well  pro- 
nounced but  barbarously  ungrammatical  French. 
*  Go  on ;  and  take  the  time  from  my  beat.' 

"  The  Polish  lady  shook  her  head ;  folded  her 
hands  in  her  lap;  and  looked  patiently  at  the 
music  before  her.  There  was  a  moment  of  si- 
lence, during  which  Jack,  thus  mutely  defied, 
glared  at  her  with  distorted  features.  Manlius 
rose  irresolutely.  Jack  stepped  down  from  the 
desk;  handed  him  the  stick;  and  said  in  a  smoth- 
[330] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

ered  voice,  *  Be  good  enough  to  conduct  this  lady's 
portion  of  the  fantasia.  When  my  music  recom- 
mences, I  will  return.' ' 

After  the  lady  has  had  her  way  Jack  is  con- 
vinced that  it  is  better  than  his ! 

She  plays  at  the  concert,  appears  in  society, 
and  immediately  fascinates  the  stupidest  young 
man  in  the  book,  Adrian  Herbert,  who  breaks  his 
engagement  with  an  English  lady  to  marry  her. 
He  paints  very  badly  and  his  favourite  composer 
is  Mendelssohn.  He  sees  nothing  in  Jack  and  his 
artist-wife  acquires  a  great  contempt  for  his 
opinions.  They  begin  to  quarrel  soon  after  they 
are  married;  and  each  quarrel  is  usually  followed 
by  a  passionate  reunion.  There  is  no  question 
about  her  preferring  her  piano  to  her  husband. 
Her  mother  is  a  mere  automaton.  Aurelie's 
world  revolves  around  her  ambition.  Yet  she  is 
a  lady.  She  would  not  promise  to  marry  Adrian 
until  he  had  secured  his  release  from  his  engage- 
ment with  the  English  girl ;  her  manners  in  general 
are  good.  She  is  always,  however,  coldly  self- 
sufficient.  She  does  not  speak  English  very  flu- 
ently and  like  all  artists  she  is  susceptible  to  flat- 
tery, so  that  when  an  American  utters  some  stupid 
commonplaces  in  the  language  she  only  half  un- 
derstands she  gives  him  credit  for  possessing  a 
[331] 


I  nterp  retations 


high  degree  of  intelligence.  A  baby  is  born  to 
this  ill-assorted  pair  and  this  baby  provides  the 
occasion  for  one  of  the  most  deliciously  humorous 
scenes  in  the  book : 

"  Mary  was  in  the  act  of  handing  the  child  care- 
fully back  to  Madame  Szczymplica,  when  Aurelie 
interposed  swiftly ;  tossed  it  up  to  the  ceiling ;  and 
caught  it  dexterously.  Adrian  stepped  forward 
in  alarm ;  Madame  uttered  a  Polish  exclamation ; 
and  the  baby  itself  growled  angrily.  Being  sent 
aloft  a  second  time,  it  howled  with  all  its  might. 

"  *  Now  you  shall  see,'  said  Aurelie,  suddenly 
placing  it,  supine,  kicking  and  screaming,  on  the 
pianoforte.  She  then  began  to  play  the  Skaters' 
Quadrille  from  Meyerbeer's  opera  of  The  Prophet. 
The  baby  immediately  ceased  to  kick ;  became  si- 
lent ;  and  lay  still  with  the  bland  expression  of  a 
dog  being  scratched,  or  a  lady  having  her  hair 
combed. 

"  *  It  has  a  vile  taste  in  music,'  she  said,  when 
the  performance  was  over.  *  It  is  old  fashioned 
in  everything.  Ah  yes.  Monsieur  Sutherland: 
would  you  kindly  pass  the  little  one  to  my 
mother.'  " 

Owen  Jack  is  the  type  of  high-tempered,  ridic- 
ulously natural  (without  a  trace  of  self-conscious- 
ness) composer,  with,  it  must  be  added,  a  strong 
[332] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

strain  of  romanticism  in  his  blood.  He  does  not 
resemble  Percy  Grainger,  Cyril  Scott,  Claude  De- 
bussy, Giacomo  Puccini,  or  Engelbert  Humper- 
dinck.  He  is  discovered  on  a  park  bench  in  the 
first  chapter  of  the  book,  where,  overhearing  an 
old  gentleman  bemoaning  his  inability  to  find  a 
tutor  for  his  son;  he  applies  for  the  position. 
Thus  the  author  describes  his  first  appearance: 
"  He  was  a  short,  thick-chested  young  man,  in 
an  old  creased  frock  coat,  with  a  worn-out  hat 
and  no  linen  visible.  His  skin,  pitted  by  small- 
pox, seemed  grained  with  black,  as  though  he  had 
been  lately  in  a  coal-mine,  and  had  not  yet  suc- 
ceeded in  towelling  the  coal-dust  from  his  pores. 
He  sat  with  his  arms  folded,  staring  at  the  ground 
before  him.  One  hand  was  concealed  under  his 
arm :  the  other  displayed  itself,  thick  in  the  palm, 
with  short  fingers,  and  nails  bitten  to  the  quick. 
He  was  clean  shaven,  and  had  a  rugged,  resolute 
mouth,  a  short  nose,  marked  nostrils,  dark  eyes, 
and  black  hair,  which  curled  over  his  low,  broad 
forehead."  Jack  is  engaged,  after  queries  have 
been  made  and  more  or  less  satisfactory  replies 
have  been  received  in  regard  to  his  past,  and  goes 
to  the  Sutherland  home  at  Windsor  where  he  pro- 
ceeds to  pound  the  spinet  into  bits,  to  rag  the 
servants,  to  express  his  frank  opinions  of  Adrian's 
[333] 


Interpretations 


vile  painting,  and  finally  after  he  has  alienated 
most  of  the  household,  to  precipitate  a  situation 
of  ejection  by  bringing  a  drunken  soldier  to  the 
house  to  play  the  clarinet.  On  the  way  to  Lon- 
don he  bursts  into  a  first  class  compartment,  oc- 
cupied by  an  old  man,  who  has  bribed  the  guard 
to  be  allowed  to  travel  alone,  and  his  daughter, 
Magdalen,  who  is  being  taken  home  a  prisoner 
from  the  delights  of  life  on  the  stage.  A  most 
outrageous  squabble  follows.  Once  in  the  Lon- 
don station  the  girl  sees  a  chance  to  escape  and 
presses  Jack  to  accept  a  ring  in  return  for  cab 
fare.  He  empties  his  pockets  into  her  hands,  with 
a  gesture  of  gallantry,  gold,  silver,  copper,  about 
four  pounds  altogether,  and  refuses  the  ring,  but 
she  sends  a  porter  after  him  with  it.  Later  Jack 
gives  Magdalen  lessons  in  speaking,  teaches  her 
how  to  use  her  voice,  and  she  becomes  a  successful 
actress,  a  state  of  affairs  which  her  family  accepts 
with  resignation.  Jack  also  enters  into  an  en- 
gagement to  teach  singing  to  a  class  of  young 
ladies,  who  arouse  his  deepest  ire.  Genius  in  its 
old  age  is  sometimes  able  to  give  instruction  with- 
out losing  its  temper ;  never  in  youth.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  great  interpretative  artists,  great  com- 
posers, are  never  the  best  teachers.  Jack  as  a 
teacher  is  impossible.  On  one  occasion  he  inter- 
[334] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

rupts  a  lesson  to  leave  the  room  in  a  rage ;  asked 
when  he  will  return  he  snaps,  "  Never !  "  But  he 
comes  back  for  the  next  lesson  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  indeed,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
nothing  had.  His  landlady  gives  a  further  il- 
luminating description  of  Jack  as  a  teacher: 

"  '  I  got  him  a  stationer's  daughter  from  High 
Street  to  teach.  After  six  lessons,  if  you'll  be- 
lieve it,  Miss,  and  she  as  pleased  as  anything  with 
the  way  she  was  getting  along,  he  told  the  sta- 
tioner that  it  was  waste  of  money  to  have  the  girl 
taught,  because  she  had  no  qualification  but  vanity. 
So  he  lost  her;  and  now  she  has  lessons  at  four 
guineas  a  dozen  from  a  lady  that  gets  all  the 
credit  for  what  he  taught  her.  Then  Simpson's 
brother-in-law  got  him  a  place  in  a  chapel  in  the 
Edgeware  Road  to  play  the  harmonium  and  train 
the  choir.  But  they  couldn't  stand  him.  He 
treated  them  as  if  they  were  dogs ;  and  the  three 
richest  old  ladies  in  the  congregation,  who  had  led 
the  singing  for  forty-five  years,  walked  out  the 
second  night,  and  said  they  wouldn't  enter  the 
chapel  till  he  was  gone.  When  the  minister  re- 
buked him,  he  up  and  said  that  if  he  was  a  God 
and  they  sang  to  him  like  that,  he'd  scatter  'em 
with  lightning ! '  " 

In  a  sudden  outburst  Jack  explains  himself  to 
[335] 


Interpretations 


a  lady  who  has  been  instrumental  in  getting  him 
pupils :  "  '  Here  am  I,  a  master  of  my  profes- 
sion —  no  easy  one  to  master  —  rotting,  and 
likely  to  continue  rotting  unheard  in  the  midst  of 
a  pack  of  shallow  panders,  who  make  a  hotch-potch 
of  what  they  can  steal  from  better  men,  and  share 
the  spoil  with  the  corrupt  performers  who  thrust 
it  upon  the  public  for  them.  Either  this,  or  the 
accursed  drudgery  of  teaching,  or  grinding  an 
organ  at  the  pleasure  of  some  canting  villain  of  a 
parson,  or  death  by  starvation,  is  the  lot  of  a 
musician  in  this  country.  I  have,  in  spite  of 
this,  never  composed  one  page  of  music  bad 
enough  for  publication  or  performance.  I  have 
drudged  with  pupils  when  I  could  get  them,  starved 
in  a  garret  when  I  could  not ;  endured  to  have  my 
works  returned  to  me  unopened  or  declared  inexe- 
cutable  by  shop-keepers  and  lazy  conductors; 
written  new  ones  without  any  hope  of  getting  even 
a  hearing  for  them ;  dragged  myself  by  excess  of 
this  fruitless  labour  out  of  horrible  fits  of  despair 
that  come  out  of  my  own  nature ;  and  throughout 
it  all  have  neither  complained  nor  prostituted  my- 
self to  write  shopware.  I  have  listened  to  com- 
placent assurances  that  publishers  and  concert- 
givers  are  only  too  anxious  to  get  good  original 
work  —  that  it  is  their  own  interest  to  do  so.  As 
[336] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

if  the  dogs  would  know  original  work  if  they  saw 
it:  or  rather  as  if  they  would  not  instinctively 
turn  away  from  anything  good  and  genuine !  All 
this  I  have  borne  without  suffering  from  it  — 
without  the  humiliation  of  finding  it  able  to  give 
me  one  moment  of  disappointment  or  resentment; 
and  now  you  tell  me  that  I  have  no  patience,  be- 
cause I  have  no  disposition  to  humour  the  caprices 
of  idle  young  ladies.' ' 

This  is  most  excellent  stuff  and  there  is  more 
of  it.  Of  Jack  as  a  composer  we  have  several 
glimpses,  but  from  the  scene  in  which  he  pays  the 
drunken  clarinettist  to  play  a  part  in  his  Fantasia 
so  that  he  may  know  how  it  will  sound,  it  is  fore- 
ordained that  he  will  become  a  great  figure.  I 
must  omit  the  very  amusing  preliminary  negotia- 
tions, the  prolonged  exchange  of  notes,  which  pre- 
lude the  performance  of  Jack's  Fantasia  by  the 
Antient  Orpheus  Society.  But  an  incident  of  the 
rehearsal  is  too  good  to  leave  unquoted,  especially 
as  it  will  remind  readers  of  a  similar  incident  in 
the  life  of  Hugo  Wolf,  used  by  Romain  Holland 
in  his  novel,  "  Jean-Christophe."  But  Shaw  im- 
agined the  scene  before  it  happened  to  Wolf !  To 
be  sure  with  a  happier  ending.  The  Antient  Or- 
pheus Society  is  any  Philharmonic  Society,  con- 
ductor, board  of  directors  and  all,  to  the  life.  I 
[337] 


Interpretations 


suppose  they  are  like  that  in  Abyssinia  if  they  are 
so  unfortunate  as  to  have  philharmonic  orchestras 
there.  The  plot  of  Wagner's  Die  Meister singer  is 
enacted  season  after  season  at  the  meetings  of  the 
doddering  old  fools  who  controll  the  destinies  of 
the  society.  The  fussy  old  idiots  take  creaking 
cautious  steps  towards  the  future.  These  are 
fully  described  .  .  .  and  finally  the  rehearsal  in 
the  great  Chapter  IX: 

"  Jack  had  rapped  the  desk  sharply  with  his 
stick,  and  was  looking  balefully  at  the  men,  who 
did  not  seem  in  any  hurry  to  attend  to  him.  He 
put  down  the  stick ;  stepped  from  the  desk ;  and 
stooped  to  the  conductor's  ear. 

"  '  I  mentioned,'  he  said,  *  that  some  of  the  parts 
ought  to  be  given  to  the  men  to  study  before  re- 
hearsal. Has  that  been  done?  ' 

"  Manlius  smiled.  *  My  dear  sir,'  he  said,  *  I 
need  hardly  tell  you  that  players  of  such  stand- 
ing as  the  members  of  the  Antient  Orpheus  or- 
chestra do  not  care  to  have  suggestions  of  that 
kind  offered  to  them.  You  have  no  cause  to  be 
uneasy.  They  can  play  anything  —  absolutely 
anything,  at  sight.' 

"  Jack  looked  black,  and  returned  to  his  desk 
without  a  word.  He  gave  one  more  rap  with  his 
stick,  and  began.  The  players  were  attentive,  but 
[338] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

many  of  them  tried  not  to  look  so.  For  a  few 
bars,  Jack  conducted  under  some  restraint,  ap- 
parently striving  to  repress  a  tendency  to  ex- 
travagant gesticulation.  Then,  as  certain  combi- 
nations and  progressions  sounded  strange  and 
farfetched,  slight  bursts  of  laughter  were  heard. 
Suddenly  the  first  clarinettist,  with  an  exclamation 
of  impatience,  put  down  his  instrument. 

"'Well?'  shouted  Jack.     The  music  ceased. 

" '  I  can't  play  that,'  said  the  clarinettist 
shortly. 

"  '  Can  you  play  it?  '  said  Jack,  with  suppressed 
rage,  to  the  second  clarinettist. 

"  *  No,'  said  he.     '  Nobody  could  play  it.' 

"  *  That  passage  lias  been  played ;  and  it  must 
be  played.  It  has  been  played  by  a  common  sol- 
dier.' 

"  *  If  a  common  soldier  ever  attempted  it,  much 
less  played  it,'  said  the  first  clarinettist,  with  some 
contemptuous  indignation  at  what  he  considered 
an  evident  falsehood,  *  he  must  have  been  drunk.' 
There  was  a  general  titter  at  this. 

"  Jack  visibly  wrestled  with  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then,  with  a  gleam  of  humour  like  a  flash 
of  sunshine  through  a  black  thundercloud  ,  he  said : 
'  You  are  right.  He  was  drunk.'  The  whole 
band  roared  with  laughter. 
[339] 


Interpretations 


"  '  Well,  /  am  not  drunk,'  said  the  clarinettist, 
folding  his  arms. 

"'But  will  you  not  just  try  wh '  Here 

Jack,  choked  by  the  effort  to  be  persuasive  and 
polite,  burst  out  raging :  *  It  can  be  done.  It 
shall  be  done.  It  must  be  done.  You  are  the 
best  clarinet  player  in  England.  I  know  what 
you  can  do.'  And  Jack  shook  his  fists  wildly  at 
the  man  as  if  he  were  accusing  him  of  some  in- 
famous crime.  But  the  compliment  was  loudly  ap- 
plauded, and  the  man  reddened,  not  altogether 
displeased.  A  cornist  who  sat  near  him  said 
soothingly  in  an  Irish  accent,  *  Aye  do,  Joe.  Try 
it.' 

"  *  You  will :  you  can,'  shouted  Jack  reassur- 
ingly, recovering  his  self-command.  *  Back  to  the 
double  bar.  Now ! '  The  music  recommenced, 
and  the  clarinettist,  overborne,  took  up  his  in- 
strument, and  when  the  passage  was  reached, 
played  it  easily,  greatly  to  his  own  astonishment. 
The  brilliancy  of  the  effect,  too,  raised  him  for  a 
time  into  a  prominence  which  rivalled  that  of  the 
pianist.  The  orchestra  interrupted  the  movement 
to  applaud  it;  and  Jack  joined  in  with  high  good 
humour. 

"  *  If  you  are  uneasy  about  it,'  he  said,  with  an 
[340] 


Love    Among    the    Artists 

undisguised  chuckle,  *  I  can  hand  it  over  to  the 
violins.' 

" '  Oh,  no,  thank  you,'  said  the  clarinettist. 
*  Now  I've  got  it,  I'll  keep  it.'  " 

There  are  many,  many  more  delightful  pages  in 
this  very  delightful  book.  We  see  Jack,  at  the 
request  of  a  young  lady  that  he  play  Thalberg's 
Moses  in  Egypt,  satisfying  her  with  improvised 
variations  of  his  own  on  themes  from  Rossini's 
opera ;  on  another  occasion  he  improvises  on 
themes  from  the  second  symphony  of  an  old  sec- 
ond-rate English  composer,  one  of  the  patrons 
of  the  Antient  Orpheus  Society.  Finally  we  see 
him  the  completely  arrived  master  with  his  music 
for  Shelley's  "  Prometheus  Unbound  " :  "  four 
scenes  with  chorus ;  a  dialogue  of  Prometheus 
with  the  earth;  an  antiphony  of  the  earth  and 
moon ;  an  overture ;  and  a  race  of  the  hours." 


[341] 


IV 

Maurice    Guest 


HENRY  HANDEL  RICHARDSON'S 
"  Maurice  Guest "  was  issued  by  Heine- 
mann  in  London  in  1908.  Sometime  later 
an  American  edition  appeared.  Otto  Neustatter's 
German  translation  was  published  in  Berlin  by 
G.  Fischer  in  1912.  The  book  seems  to  exist  in 
the  New  York  Public  Library  only  in  its  German 
form.  A  search  through  the  English  "  Who's 
Who  ? "  and  kindred  manuals  of  biography  re- 
vealed no  information  about  the  author.  Lately 
I  have  learned  that  Henry  Handel  Richardson  is 
a  pseudonym,  assumed  with  much  mystery  by  a 
Australian  lady,  herself  a  musician  and  at  one 
time  a  music  student  at  Leipzig.  She  has  already 
published  a  second  novel  and  a  third  is  on  the 
press,  I  believe. 

Mr.  Richardson  (for  convenience  I  retain  the 
author's  symbol)  has  dealt  with  what  is  generally 
ignored  in  imaginative  works  about  musicians, 
the  study  years.  "  Maurice  Guest  "  is  a  novel  of 
music  student  life  in  Leipzig.  With  unfaltering 
authority  and  a  skilful  pen  he  has  drawn  such  a 
hectic  picture  of  this  existence  (from  my  knowl- 
[342] 


Maurice    Guest 


edge  of  a  similar  life  in  Paris  I  should  say  that 
it  is  not  overdrawn)  as  should  frighten  any  Amer- 
ican mother  to  the  point  of  preventing  her  off- 
spring from  embarking  on  a  musical  career  which 
shall  require  any  such  preparation.  Indeed  if 
mere  students  in  Germany  indulge  in  such  riots  of 
emotion  what  can  be  expected  of  virtuosi  I  should 
like  to  know ! 

The  character  of  the  title  is  an  English  boy, 
no  colossal  exception,  no  abnormality  .  .  .  rather 
the  average  boy  who  takes  up  music  for  a  voca- 
tion without  having  much  reason  for  doing  so. 
His  somewhat  negative,  romantic,  sentimental,  but 
very  serious  temperament  quickly  involves  him  in 
the  maelstrom  of  student  sex  life,  in  which,  for 
him,  there  is  no  escape.  He  fails  in  his  piano 
studies  while  others,  more  brilliantly  equipped  for 
the  career  of  an  artist,  quickly  speed  to  their  goals, 
at  the  same  time  living  disordered  and  drunken 
existences.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  the  real  artist 
and  the  man  who  thinks  he  is  one  written  in  terms 
of  the  student.  Tchekov  in  one  of  his  greatest 
plays,  The  Seagull,  compares  the  two  types,  as 
Trigorin  and  Treplieff,  on  another  plane,  of 
course.  Frank  Wedekind,  too,  in  Musik,  has 
dealt  with  the  subject.  Of  the  thousands  of  music 
students  in  Germany  only  a  comparatively  few 
[  343  ] 


Interpretations 


develop  into  artists,  while  of  those  who  master 
the  art,  still  fewer  are  capable  of  profiting  finan- 
cially by  it.  The  central  character  of  Musik, 
Klara  Huhnerwadel,  is  a  neurotic  girl,  insanely 
in  love  with  her  singing  teacher.  The  play  has  a 
tragic  and,  according  to  Wedekind's  wont,  a  bit- 
terly ironic  ending.  In  Mr.  Richardson's  book, 
Maurice,  who  is  not  unlike  Octavius  in  Man  and 
Superman,  indeed  not  unlike  Hamlet,  is  contrasted 
with  a  brilliant  and  unscrupulous  Polish  violinist, 
Schilsky,  successful  in  love,  successful  as  a  vir- 
tuoso, successful  as  a  composer.  He  not  only 
plays  the  violin  like  a  master,  but  we  are  told  he 
plays  a  dozen  other  instruments  better  than  well; 
we  are  given  a  description  of  his  piano  playing. 
Like  Richard  Strauss  he  has  written  a  tone-poem 
suggested  by  Nietzsche's  "  Zarathustra."  He  is 
an  excellent  chef  d'orchestre.  His  amatory  ad- 
ventures are  conducted  with  an  unscrupulous  eye 
on  the  pocket  books  of  his  conquests.  He  lives  on 
women,  especially  one  woman,  who,  however,  can- 
not hold  his  attention,  even  by  paying  freely. 
Despised  by  the  town,  there  is  scarcely  a  woman 
who  is  not  in  love  with  him,  scarcely  a  man  who 
is  not  his  friend.  All  admire  his  genius.  Here 
is  a  picture  of  the  man,  which  you  might  place 
next  to  the  conventional  description  of  the  musi- 
[344] 


Maurice    Guest 


cian  composing  in  a  garden,  surrounded  by  night- 
ingales and  gardenias,  dreaming  of  angels.  Re- 
gard this  Saint  Cecil: 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  room,  at  the  corner  of 
a  bare  deal  table  that  was  piled  with  loose  music 
and  manuscript,  Schilsky  sat  improving  and  cor- 
recting the  tails  and  bodies  of  hastily  made  notes. 
He  was  still  in  his  nightshirt,  over  which  he  had 
thrown  coat  and  trousers ;  and,  wide  open  at  the 
neck,  it  exposed  to  the  waist  a  skin  of  the  dead 
whiteness  peculiar  to  red-haired  people.  His 
face,  on  the  other  hand,  was  sallow  .and  unf resh ; 
and  the  reddish  rims  of  the  eyes,  and  the  coarsely 
self-indulgent  mouth,  contrasted  strikingly  with 
the  general  youthfulness  of  his  appearance.  He 
had  the  true  musician's  head:  round  as  a  cannon- 
ball,  with  a  vast,  bumpy  forehead,  on  which  the 
soft  fluffy  hair  began  far  back,  and  stood  out 
like  a  nimbus.  His  eyes  were  either  desperately 
dreamy  or  desperately  sharp,  never  normally  at- 
tentive or  at  rest ;  his  blunted  nose  and  chin  were 
so  short  as  to  make  the  face  look  top-heavy.  A 
carefully  tended  young  moustache  stood  straight 
out  along  his  cheeks.  He  had  large  slender  hands 
and  quick  movements. 

"  The  air  of  the  room  was  like  a  thin  grey  veil- 
ing, for  all  three  puffed  hard  at  cigarettes. 
[345] 


I  nterp  relations 


Without  removing  his  from  between  his  teeth, 
Schilsky  related  an  adventure  of  the  night  before. 
He  spoke  in  jerks,  with  a  strong  lisp,  and  was 
more  intent  on  what  he  was  doing  than  on  what 
he  was  saying. 

"'Do  you  think  he'd  budge?'  he  asked  in  a 
quick  sputtery  way.  *  Not  he.  Till  nearly  two. 
And  then  I  couldn't  get  him  along.  He  thought 
it  wasn't  eleven,  and  wanted  to  stop  at  every  cor- 
ner. To  irritate  an  imaginary  bobby.  He  dis- 
puted with  them  too.  Heavens,  what  sport  it 
was !  At  last  I  dragged  him  up  here  and  got  him 
on  the  sofa.  Off  he  rolls  again.  So  I  let  him  lie. 
He  didn't  disturb  me.' 

"  Heinrich  Krafft,  the  hero  of  the  episode,  lay 
on  the  short,  uncomfortable  sofa,  with  the  table- 
cover  for  a  blanket.  In  answer  to  Schilsky,  he 
said  faintly,  without  opening  his  eyes :  '  Nothing 
would.  You  are  an  ox.  When  I  wake  this  morn- 
ing with  a  mouth  like  gum  arabic,  he  sits  there 
as  if  he  had  not  stirred  all  night.  Then  to  bed, 
and  snores  till  midday,  through  all  the  hellish 
light  and  noise.' 

"  Here  Fiirst  could  not  resist  making  a  little 
joke.  He  announced  himself  by  a  chuckle  — 
like  the  click  of  a  clock  about  to  strike. 

"  *  He's  got  to  make  the  most  of  his  liberty. 
[346] 


Maurice    Guest 


He  doesn't  often  get  off  duty.  We  know,  we 
know.'  He  laughed  tonelessly  and  winked  at 
Krafft. 

"Krafft  quoted: 

'  In  der  Woche  zwier.' 

"  '  Now  you  fellows,  shut  up ! '  said  Schilsky. 
It  was  plain  that  banter  of  this  kind  was  not 
disagreeable  to  him;  at  the  same  time  he  was  just 
at  the  moment  too  engrossed,  to  have  more  than 
half  an  ear  for  what  was  said.  With  his  short- 
sighted eyes  close  to  the  paper,  he  was  listening 
with  all  his  might  to  some  harmonies  that  his 
fingers  played  on  the  table.  When,  a  few  min- 
utes later,  he  rose  and  stretched  the  stiffness  from 
his  limbs,  his  face,  having  lost  its  expression  of 
rapt  concentration,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown 
younger." 

The  conflict  in  this  novel  is  expressed  through 
Louise,  one  of  those  young  women  with  a  certain 
amount  of  money  who  find  food  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  sex  desires  in  the  atmosphere  of  a 
music  school  town.  She  it  is  who,  thrown  aside 
by  Schilsky,  creeps  back  literally  on  her  knees 
to  beg  him  to  renew  their  love ;  she  it  is  who  lav- 
ishes attention  and  money  on  his  quite  careless 
indifference ;  and  she  it  is  to  whom  Maurice  Guest 
[347] 


Interpretations 


devotes  his  love.  Schilsky  goes  away  without  a 
word,  and  Louise,  abandoned,  in  utter  grief  ac- 
cepts the  attentions  of  Maurice,  at  first  without 
enthusiasm,  later  at  least  with  gratitude,  but 
when  she  has  at  length  become  his  mistress  the 
shadow  of  her  past  continually  haunts  Maurice; 
continually  he  drags  it  over  their  altar  of  love, 
polluting  the  oblations  with  his  frantic  suspicions. 
The  psychology  of  these  scenes,  protracted  to 
the  wearying  point,  is  so  completely  satisfying 
that  they  seem  almost  autobiographical.  Here  is 
a  typical  scene  in  which  the  comparison  is  laid 
bare: 

"  *  Or  tell  me,'  Maurice  said  abruptly  with  a 
ray  of  hope ;  '  tell  me  the  truth  about  it  all  for 
once.  Was  it  mere  exaggeration,  or  was  he  really 
worth  so  much  more  than  all  the  rest  of  us?  Of 
course  he  could  play  —  I  know  that  —  but  so  can 
many  a  fool.  But  all  the  other  part  of  it  — 
his  incredible  talent,  or  luck  in  everything  he 
touched  —  was  it  just  report,  or  was  it  really 
something  else?  —  tell  me.' 

"  *  He  was  a  genius,'  she  answered,  very  coldly 
and  distinctly;  and  her  voice  warned  him  once 
more  that  he  was  trespassing  on  ground  to  which 
he  had  no  right.  But  he  was  too  excited  to  take 
the  warning. 

[348] 


Maurice    Guest 


"  '  A  genius  ! '  he  echoed.  *  He  was  a  genius ! 
Yes,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Your  very  words  imply 
a  comparison  as  you  say  them.  For  I?  —  what 
am  I?  A  miserable  bungler,  a  wretched  dilettant 
—  or  have  you  another  word  for  it?  Oh,  never 
mind  —  don't  be  afraid  to  say  it !  —  I'm  not  sen- 
sitive to-night.  I  can  bear  to  hear  your  real 
opinion  of  me;  for  it  could  not  possibly  be  lower 
than  my  own.  Let  us  get  at  the  truth  at  once, 
by  all  means !  —  But  what  I  want  to  know,'  he 
cried  a  moment  later,  *  is,  why  one  should  be  given 
so  much  and  the  other  so  little.  To  one  all  the 
talents  and  all  your  love;  and  the  other  unhappy 
wretch  remains  an  outsider  his  whole  life  long. 
When  you  speak  in  that  tone  about  him,  I  could 
wish  with  all  my  heart  that  he  had  been  no  better 
than  I  am.  It  would  give  me  pleasure  to  know 
that  he,  too,  had  only  been  a  dabbling  amateur  — 
the  victim  of  a  pitiable  wish  to  be  what  he  hadn't 
the  talent  for.'  " 

At  length  Schilsky  returns  and  Maurice  be- 
comes in  truth  Don  Jose,  to  the  Carmen  (her 
favourite  opera)  of  Louise.  She  frankly  admits 
that  the  Pole  is  her  only  passion,  and  Maurice, 
who  lacks  the  stamina  of  his  Spanish  prototype, 
brings  the  book  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion  by 
killing  himself.  .  .  .  There  is  a  short  final  scene 
[349] 


Interpretations 


in  which  we  get  a  glimpse  of  Louise  as  Mme. 
Schilsky. 

There  is  nothing  jerky  about  the  telling  of 
this  sordid  story;  nothing  jars.  It  is  done  with 
a  direction  and  a  vivid  attention  to  the  matter  in 
hand  which  is  very  arresting,  and  such  atmos- 
pheric episodes  as  decorate  its  progress  only  aid 
in  the  elaborate  development  of  the  main  theme. 
For  example  Schilsky  is  the  recipient  of  homo- 
sexual affection  from  one  Heinrich  Krafft,  who 
plays  Chopin  divinely  and  keeps  a  one-eyed  cat 
named  Wotan.  This  character  is  sharply  etched 
with  a  few  keen  strokes.  He  in  turn  is  under  the 
subjugating  amorousness  of  a  masculine  young 
lady  named  Avery  Hill.  There  is  an  American 
girl,  Ephie  Cayhill,  who  pursues  Schilsky  and 
whom  he  seduces  as  he  might  munch  a  piece  of 
cake,  the  while  he  is  playing,  composing,  drinking, 
and  continuing  his  affair  with  Louise.  Her  sister 
discovers  her  secret  at  a  crucial  moment,  and  she 
is  carried  away  from  Leipzig  and  drops  out  of 
the  book,  having  served  her  purpose  in  denoting 
Schilsky's  unlimited  capacity. 

The  American  colony  is  sketched,  not  at  length, 
but  the  details  catch  the  eye  like  the  corners  of 
a  battle  field  in  a  Griffiths's  picture.  Mr.  Rich- 
ardson here,  however,  has  almost  verged  on  cari- 
[350] 


Maurice    Guest 


cature  at  times.  We  have  all  of  us  heard  Ameri- 
cans who  go  abroad  talk  but  this  perhaps  is  a  little 
strong:  "I  come  to  Schwartz  (a  piano  teacher) 
last  fall  and  he  thinks  no  end  of  me.  But  the 
other  week  I  was  sick,  and  as  I  lay  in  bed,  I 
sung  some  —  just  for  fun.  And  my  landlady  — 
she's  a  regular  singer  herself  —  who  was  fixing 
up  the  room,  she  claps  her  hands  together  and 
says :  *  My  goodness  me !  Why  you  have  a 
voice ! '  That's  what  put  it  in  my  head,  and  I 
went  to  Sperling  to  hear  what  he'd  got  to  say. 
He  was  just  tickled  to  death,  I  guess  he  was,  and 
he's  going  to  make  something  dandy  of  it,  so  I 
stop  long  enough.  I  don't  know  what  my  hus- 
band will  say  though.  When  I  wrote  him  I  was 
sick,  he  says :  '  Come  home  and  be  sick  at  home  ' 
—  that's  what  he  says."  And  here's  another 
American  lady:  "  Now  Mr.  Dove  is  just  a  lovely 
gentleman,  but  he  don't  skate  elegantly,  an'  he 
nearly  tumbled  me  twice.  Yes,  indeed.  But  I 
presume  when  Miss  Wade  says  come,  then  you're 
most  obliged  to  go."  But  there  isn't  much  of 
this  sort  of  thing.  The  piano  teachers  of  the 
colony,  with  their  small  petty  jealousies,  their 
sordid  family  lives,  are  painted.  Pension  life  is 
depicted  on  the  canvas,  and  the  average  family 
of  Leipzig  that  takes  in  music  students  to  board 
[351] 


Interpretations 


and  room.  A  typical  figure  is  Frau  Fiirst,  the 
widow  of  an  oboe  player  in  the  Gewandhaus  or- 
chestra who  died  of  a  chill  after  a  performance 
of  Die  Meister singer.  In  her  youth  she  had  a 
good  soprano  voice  and  Robert  Schumann  often 
sent  for  her  to  come  to  his  house  in  the  Inselstrasse 
to  try  his  songs,  while  Clara  Schumann  accom- 
panied her.  During  her  husband's  lifetime  she  had 
become  accustomed  to  remaining  in  the  kitchen 
during  musical  evenings  at  the  house,  and  she 
continues  to  do  so  when  her  son,  who  is  a  pianist 
and  teacher,  has  friends  in.  On  the  same  fourth 
floor  with  the  Fiirsts  "  lived  a  pale,  harassed 
teacher,  with  a  family  which  had  long  outgrown 
its  accommodations ;  for  the  wife  was  perpetually 
in  childbed,  and  cots  and  cradles  were  the  chief 
furniture  of  the  house.  As  the  critical  moments 
of  her  career  drew  nigh,  the  '  Frau  Lehrer  '  com- 
plained, with  an  aggravated  bitterness,  of  the  un- 
ceasing music  that  went  on  behind  the  thin  par- 
tition ;  and  this  grievance,  together  with  the  racy 
items  of  gossip  left  behind  the  midwife's  annual 
visit,  like  a  trail  of  smoke,  provided  her  and 
Fiirst's  mother  with  infinite  food  for  talk.  They 
were  thick  friends  again  a  few  minutes  after  a 
scene  so  lively  that  blows  seemed  imminent,  and 
they  met  every  morning  on  the  landing,  where, 
[352] 


Maurice    Guest 


with  broom  or  child  in  hand,  they  stood  gossiping 
by  the  hour." 

There  are  several  descriptions  of  the  students 
in  the  cafes,  students  with  their  blasphemous,  ob- 
scene gossip,  mingled  with  technical  small  talk. 
All  through  the  book  we  are  reminded  why  these 
young  people  are  foregathered  in  these  strange 
relations.  That  there  are  men  and  women  of 
small  talent  who  escape  the  weakening  influences 
of  such  a  circle  I  am  too  ready  to  admit,  but 
Mr.  Richardson  has  not  gone  to  extremes.  The 
life  of  vocal  students  in  Paris  is  similar. 

April  4,  1917. 


[353] 


Why     Music     is     Unpopular 

"  I  write  what  I  see,  what  1  feel,  and  what  I  have 
experienced,  and  I  write  it  as  well  as  I  can;  that  is 
all." 

Joris  K.  Huysmans. 


Why    Music   is 
Unpopular 


MUSICAL  criticism  usually  falls  automatic- 
ally into  two  classes.  In  the  one  the 
critic,  whose  emotions  have  ostensibly  been 
aroused  by  poems  in  tone,  tries  to  render  to  the 
reader  the  intensity  of  his  feelings  by  quoting 
from  the  word  poets.  The  first  line  of  "  En- 
dymion "  and  passages  from  Shakespeare  fall 
athwart  his  pages.  Scarcely  a  musical  note  but 
has  its  literary  echo.  If  you  have  never  heard 
Beethoven's  Seventh  Symphony  it  may  afford  you 
some  small  consolation  to  find  it  tied  up  in  the 
critic's  mind  with  something  like  this : 

"  Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 
Bird  thou  never  wert.  .  .  ." 

The  music  of  Maurice  Ravel  reminds  these  un- 
imaginative scribes  of  lines  from  Arthur  Rimbaud 
and  Jules  Laforgue;  snitches  and  snatches  from 
Keats  and  Wordsworth  serve  admirably  to  evoke 
the  spirit  of  almost  any  musician;  I  have  found 
Walt  Whitman  linked  with  Edward  MacDowell ; 
Milton  and  Handel  are  occasionally  made  to  seem 
to  speak  the  same  language;  Byron  and  Tschai- 
[357] 


Interpretations 


kowsky  are  asked  to  walk  hand  in  hand.  An 
audience  of  silly  maiden  ladies  in  the  middle  West, 
unaccomplished  in  the  skill  of  tones,  hearing  little 
music,  applauds  delightedly  this  soft  sobbery. 
.  .  .  Two  lines  I  have  never  seen  quoted.  This 
from  W.  B.  Yeats  ("  King  and  No  King  ")  would 
certainly  suit  many  a  singer :  "  Would  it  were 
anything  but  merely  voice ! "  and  sometimes,  after 
a  few  days  of  shameless  concert-going  with  a 
friend  from  out  of  town,  I  feel  like  reassuring 
him,  Calibanwise:  "  Be  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full 
of  noises." 

Our  second  critic  approaches  his  task  with  more 
sobriety  of  expression.  He  feels  that  it  is  his 
bounden,  and  unenlivening,  duty  to  avoid  florid 
language  in  his  dismal  effort  to  impress  his  readers 
with  the  sublime  seriousness  of  the  art  he  is  so 
laboriously  striving  to  keep  within  academically 
prescribed  limits.  His  erudite  style  bristles  with 
adverbial  clauses  and  semi-technical  conjurations, 
abjurations,  and  apostrophes.  He  summons  the 
eleven  dull  devils  of  dusty  knowledge  to  his  aid 
in  his  consistent  endeavour  to  be  accurate  and 
just.  He  never  deals  in  metaphor,  never  in 
simile;  no  figures  of  speech  sully  the  dead  drab 
of  his  pages ;  he  would  consider  them,  if  he  thought 
about  the  matter  at  all,  cheapening  influences, 
[358] 


Why    Music    Is    Unpopular 

encroaching  on  the  drowsy  preserves  of  his  som- 
nolent profession.  With  as  pedantic  a  gesture 
as  he  can  command  he  lays  out  his  weights  and 
measures,  always  qualifying,  always.  Buts,  ifs, 
and  in  spite  ofs  cumber  his  operose  paragraphs. 
No  music  is  perfect,  none  is  imperfect.  With  this 
axiom,  liberally  disregarded  by  more  lively  writers, 
for  a  text,  he  proceeds  to  tell  us  that  the  allegro 
of  the  new  fantasia  is  admirable  in  form,  but  that 
the  themes,  perhaps,  do  not  justify  such  elaborate 
treatment.  He  emphasizes  history;  he  leans  on 
handbooks ;  musty  facts  are  dragged  in  pales- 
trically  for  their  own  sake  alone.  His  manner  is 
formidable,  exegetical,  eupeptic,  adynamic  .  .  . 
asthenic.  He  clings  to  cliche,  "  The  composition 
smells  of  the  midnight  oil,"  etc.,  etc. 

These  two  unideal,  imaginary  critics  are  only 
too  actually  with  us  on  every  hand.  They  always 
have  been  and  they  always  will  be.  They  are  one 
of  the  principal  reasons  for  the  profound  and 
unfortunate  indifference,  nay  contempt,  with 
which  music  (as  an  art,  in  so  many  words)  is 
regarded  by  the  man  who  may  take  an  enormous 
amount  of  pleasure  in  reading  books  and  looking 
at  pictures.  Instead  of  realizing  the  unconfined 
and  boundless  nature  of  the  greatest  and  most 
mysterious  of  the  arts,  they  have  acted  as  direct 
[  359  ] 


I  nterp  retations 


agents  in  the  perpetuation  of  the  bugaboos  and 
voodoos  of  the  academy,  freely  offering  incense 
and  the  freshly  slain  sacrifices  of  baby  musicians 
to  the  false  gods  of  their  fathers.  Often,  indeed, 
their  work  is  feticidal.  Far  from  urging  the  lay- 
man to  approach  the  sacred  temple,  they  frighten 
him  away.  "  Come  and  listen  "  is  never  on  their 
lips,  never  flows  from  their  pens.  Instead  they 
write :  "  Stay  away.  I  have  spent  my  whole  life 
trying  to  learn  what  you  never  can  know.  Any 
pleasure  you  may  take  in  music  is  a  false  pleasure 
because  it  is  not  based  on  knowledge,  which  does 
not  permit  you  to  enjoy  yourself.  Retreat, 
young  man ;  go  back  to  your  books  and  pictures ; 
the  gods  of  music  want  none  such  as  you  to  draw 
near  to  the  altars."  Instead,  indeed,  of  sending 
the  reader  to  the  nearest  concert  hall  they  have 
made  him  take  a  mental  oath  that  never,  if  he 
knows  it,  will  he  voluntarily  set  foot  in  such  a 
place.  I  am  pre-supposing  readers !  The  ter- 
rible truth  is  that  these  men,  after  a  time,  are 
not  even  read,  and  their  early  readers,  skeptical 
thereafter  of  all  literature  devoted  to  music,  never 
again  will  peruse  a  line  of  what  they  are  forced 
to  consider  hopeless  drivel.  Thereby  they  shut 
themselves  off,  unwittingly,  not  only  from  further 
communion  with  music  itself  but  also  from  in- 
[360] 


Why    Music    Is    Unpopular 

timacy  with  one  of  the  most  delightful  sidetracks 
of  all  literature,  for  it  cannot  be  denied  that  there 
are  books  on  the  subject  which  would  amuse  a 
tone-deaf  autodidact. 

For  there  are  other  kinds  of  music  critics. 
There  is  the  man,  for  instance,  who  writes  with 
a  flourish,  indulges  in  "  fine  writing  "  and  what  is 
"precious,"  and  vocalizes  with  adjectives.  You 
may  not  agree  with  his  hyperbolic  statement  that 
Grieg  and  MacDowell  were  the  great  musicians  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century  but  you  are  interested  in 
it  because  he  means  it  and  because  he  is  not  afraid 
to  say  so  emphatically.  "  Perhaps,"  you  some- 
times whisper  to  yourself  chasteningly,  "  he  is 
right.  Perhaps  Brahms  and  Strauss  are  little 
men  compared  with  these  singers.  How  can 
one  be  sure?  Was  Mendelssohn  greater  than 
Beethoven?  " 

A  second  critic  slashes  violently  into  some 
school  or  other;  he  drives  his  sword  into  the 
heart  of  your  pet  theory,  while  valiantly  defend- 
ing as  good  a  one  of  his  own ;  he  dips  his  pen 
in  gall  and  writes  on  paper  soaked  in  wormwood. 
He  despises  the  new  music,  any  new  music,  and  he 
consumes  nine  thousand  words  in  telling  you  why ; 
he  loathes  the  opera  and  he  throws  all  the  weight 
of  his  influential  opinion  against  it.  This  man 
[361] 


Interpretations 


is  readable  and  interesting.  His  views  assume 
importance  even  to  those  who  do  not  agree  with 
them,  because  they  arouse  curiosity.  "  Can  the 
music  of  Schoenberg  be  as  bad  as  all  that  ?  "  You 
question  yourself.  "  I  must  hear  it  and  judge  for 
myself." 

A  third  imaginary  musical  writer  mingles  anec- 
dote with  more  pregnant  matter;  nothing  is  too 
trivial  for  his  purpose,  nothing  too  serious.  He 
is  accurate  without  being  pedantic ;  he  paints  the 
human  side  of  the  art.  He  draws  us  nearer  to 
compositions  by  talking  about  the  composers. 
When  he  writes  of  a  singer  it  is  not  as  if  he  were 
describing  a  vocal  machine  emitting  nearly  per- 
fect notes;  he  pictures  a  human  being  applying 
herself  to  her  art;  his  account  is  vivid,  often 
humorous.  He  enlivens  us  and  he  awakens  our 
interest.  This  is  not  altogether  a  matter  of 
style:  it  is  a  matter  of  feeling.  The  style  is  per- 
haps the  man ! 

There  are  but  two  rules  for  the  critic  to  fol- 
low: have  something  to  say  and  say  it  as  well 
as  you  know  how;  say  it  with  charm  or  say  it 
with  force  but  say  it  naturally;  do  not  be  afraid 
to  say  to-day  what  you  may  regret  to-morrow; 
and,  above  all,  do  not  befuddle  and  befog  the  mind 
of  your  reader  by  dragging  in  Shelley,  Francis 
[362] 


Why    Music    Is    Unpopular 

Thompson,  William  Blake,  and  Verlaine.  If  you 
can  suggest  ideas  to  him  by  quoting  from  the 
poets,  by  all  means  quote  freely,  but  do  not  try 
to  kindle  in  him  the  sensation  caused  by  a  hearing 
of  Cesar  Frank's  D  Minor  Symphony  by  printing 
copious  excerpts  from  the  published  works  of 
Swinburne  and  Mallarme.  Musical  criticism  has 
two  purposes,  beyond  the  obvious  and  most  essen- 
tial one  that  it  provides  a  bad  livelihood  for  the 
critic:  one,  and  perhaps  the  most  important,  is 
to  entertain  the  reader,  because  criticism,  like 
any  other  form  of  literature,  should  stand  by 
itself  and  not  lean  too  heavily  on  the  matter  of 
which  it  treats ;  the  other  is  to  interest  the  reader 
in  music,  or  in  books  about  music,  or  in  musicians. 
Criticism  can  be  informing  without  being  pedan- 
tic; it  can  prod  the  pachydermal  hide  of  a  con- 
servative old  fogy  concert-goer  without  deviating 
from  the  facts.  Above  all  else  criticism  should  be 
an  expression  of  personal  feeling.  Otherwise  it 
has  no  value.  "  Whoever  has  been  through  the 
experience  of  discussing  criticism  with  a  thorough, 
perfect,  and  entire  Ass,"  writes  Bernard  Shaw, 
"  has  been  told  that  criticism  should  above  all 
things  be  free  from  personal  feeling." 

On  one  occasion  I  experienced  an  irrepressible 
desire  to   rail   against   the  intellectual   snobbery 
[363] 


I  nterp  retations 


which  persuaded  flaccid  minds  that  the  string 
quartet  was  the  noblest  form  of  art  and  that 
the  organizations  which  devoted  themselves  to  this 
fetich  were  archangelic  interpreters  of  a  heavenly 
song.  I  might  have  said :  "  The  string  quartet 
is  an  over-rated  form  of  art.  Certainly  Bee- 
thoven, Mozart,  and  Brahms  have  poured  some  of 
their  greatest  inspiration  into  this  mould,  some 
of  their  most  musical  feeling,  and  yet  the  nature 
of  this  music  is  such  that  its  interpreters  derive 
more  pleasure  from  its  performance  than  its  audi- 
tors." It  is  possible  that  these  sentences  might 
have  been  read,  if  so,  understood  .  .  .  and  for- 
gotten. If  every  time  I  expressed  a  personal  feel- 
ing (and  all  my  feelings  and  tastes  are  intensely 
personal)  I  followed  with  something  like  this,  "  it 
seems  to  me,"  or  "  this  may  or  may  not  be  true," 
or  "  according  to  my  taste,"  or  "  Mr.  Thing  does 
not  agree  with  me,"  my  utterances  would  lose 
whatever  force  or  charm  they  possess  and  they 
would  be  so  clogged  with  extraneous  qualifications 
that  no  one  would  read  them.  "  It  is  the  fault  of 
our  rhetoric,"  Emerson  once  wrote,  "  that  we 
cannot  strongly  state  one  fact  without  seeming 
to  belie  some  other.".  .  .  What  I  did  say  about 
string  quartets  provoked  attention.  Philip  Hale 
remarked  that  the  older  lions  roared  and  shook 
[364] 


Why    Music    Is    Unpopular 

their  manes  because  I  spoke  disrespectfully  of 
chamber  music,  which  thus  suffered  along  with 
the  equator.  Perhaps.  .  .  .  However,  a  certain 
salutory  disrespect  for  the  snobbery  of  string 
quartet  fanatics  survived  .  .  .  also  along  with 
the  equator. 

It  is  not  necessary  that  you,  graceful  reader, 
should  agree  with  the  critic.  You  will  satisfy  no 
longing  in  the  heart  of  the  animal  if  you  do 
agree  with  him,  unless  he  be  made  of  false  metal. 
It  will  require  only  a  little  reading  on  your  part 
to  convince  you  that  the  critics  themselves,  espe- 
cially the  best  and  most  interesting  critics,  do  not 
agree.  There  are  no  standards,  it  would  seem, 
by  which  music  can  be  assessed  and  judged  with 
any  degree  of  finality.  Lawrence  Oilman,  in  an 
article  entitled  "  Taste  in  Music,"  which  appeared 
in  the  "  Musical  Quarterly  "  for  January,  1917, 
gives  us  plenty  of  evidence  on  this  point,  if  any 
were  needed.  He  reminds  us  that  John  F.  Runci- 
man  viewed  Parsifal  with  a  contemptuous  eye, 
called  the  music  "  decrepit  stuff,"  "  the  last  sad 
quaverings  of  a  beloved  friend "  while  Ernest 
Newman  describes  it  as  "  in  many  ways  the  most 
wonderful  and  impressive  thing  ever  done  in 
music."  Vernon  Blackburn  regarded  Elgar's 
Dream  of  Gerontius  as  the  finest  musical  work 
[365] 


I  nterp  relations 


since  Wagner  but  Mr.  George  Moore  dismisses 
it  briefly  as  "  holy  water  in  a  German  beer-bar- 
rel." H.  E.  Krehbiel  considers  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande  as  a  score  of  which  "  nine-tenths  is  dreary 
monotony "  whereas  Louis  Laloy  is  stirred  to 
reverence  by  contemplation  of  its  beauty.  Jean 
Marnold  and  H.  T.  Finck  do  not  agree  about 
Carmen  and  W.  J.  Henderson  and  James  Hune- 
ker  hold  precisely  opposite  opinions  regarding  the 
merits  of  Strauss's  Don  Quixote. 

To  be  sure  there  is  pretty  general  acknowledg- 
ment that  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Mozart  were 
great  composers.  But  some  critics  insist  that 
the  musicians  who  imitate  the  forms  and  styles 
of  those  masters  to-day  are  great  composers,  a 
point  of  view  which  always  awakens  the  murder- 
ous instinct  within  me,  as  it  should  be  apparent 
to  the  veriest  dolt  that  an  artist  in  some  way 
must  reflect  the  spirit  of  his  own  epoch.  There 
are  critics  who  accept  Wagner,  Rienzi,  Lohengrm, 
Ring,  and  Parsifal;  others  find  nothing  to  enjoy 
or  praise  in  certain  of  his  works  and  even  dis- 
cover tiresome  passages  in  Die  Walkiire.  Some 
critics  profess  to  admire  folk-songs  and  folk-song 
influences:  others  do  not.  Many  otherwise  esti- 
mable men  have  been  found  who  are  willing  to 
subscribe  to  an  everlasting  veneration  for  the 
[366] 


Why    Music    Is    Unpopular 

music  of  Liszt,  a  reverence  for  the  compositions 
of  Rubinstein.  I  have  read  in  several  newspapers 
and  at  least  one  magazine  that  Horatio  Parker's 
Mona  was  a  valuable  contribution  to  national  art. 
It  is  possible.  When  we  are  told  that  Percy 
Grainger  is  a  greater  composer  than  Debussy  we 
may  be  interested  if  we  are  interested  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  telling,  but  we  are  not  obliged  to  accept 
the  statement  as  literally  true.  Indeed  it  is  so 
certain  that  there  is  so  little  that  can  be  regarded 
as  eternally  true  on  the  subject  of  music  that  the 
matter  seems  scarcely  worth  arguing  about. 

There  are  many  delightful  writers  about  music 
and  you  will  find  that  all  of  them,  in  one  way 
or  another,  bear  out  the  point  of  my  remarks. 
There  are  too  many  others  who  are  hedging  the 
most  universal  of  the  arts  away  from  the  people 
to  whom  it  belongs,  protecting  it  with  their  dull 
vapourings,  their  vapid  technicalities,  their  wor- 
ship of  Clio,  their  stringent  analyses,  or,  worse 
than  all,  their  extensive  explanations.  Let  each 
judge  for  himself,  and  let  every  one  be  encouraged 
to  judge.  Let  more  think  about  music;  to  make 
that  possible  curiosity  must  be  stimulated,  so 
that  there  may  be  a  more  general  desire  to  hear 
music.  Books  are  on  every  hand;  if  one  does 
not  visit  galleries  at  least  one  cannot  escape  re- 
[367] 


I  nterp  relations 


productions  of  good  pictures  in  the  magazines 
and  the  Sunday  supplements  of  the  newspapers; 
but  to  hear  music  (I  speak  of  so-called  "  art 
music  ")  it  is  necessary  to  visit  certain  halls  on 
certain  days.  This  requires  encouragement  be- 
cause it  also  requires  patience.  Why  I  have 
waited  more  than  twelve  years  to  hear  Vincent 
d'Indy's  Istar  only  to  discover  that  I  have  heard 
it  too  late !  The  conductors  of  our  concerts  make 
matters  difficult ;  do  not  let  our  critics  make  them 
more  so. 

In  the  interests  of  strict  accuracy  this  article, 
of  course,  should  have  been  entitled  "  Some  re- 
marks on  one  of  the  reasons  for  the  comparative 
unpopularity  of  music  as  an  art  form,"  an  exact 
description  of  its  contents,  but  if  I  had  called  it 
that  do  you  think  you  would  have  read  it? 

March  1,  1917. 


THE    END 


[368] 


" BORZOI"  stands  for  the  best  in  litera- 
ture in  all  its  branches — drama  and  fiction, 
poetry  and  art.  " BORZOI"  also  stands  for 
unusually  pleasing  book-making. 

BORZOI  Books  are  good  books  and  there 
is  one  for  every  taste  worthy  of  the  name. 
A  few  are  briefly  described  on  the  next 
page.  Mr.  Knopf  will  be  glad  to  see  that 
you  are  notified  regularly  of  new  and  forth- 
coming BORZOI  Books  if  you  will  send  him 
your  name  and  address  for  that  purpose. 
He  will  also  see  that  your  local  dealer  is 
supplied. 


ADDRESS  THE  BORZOI 

220  WEST  FORTY-SECOND  STREET 

NEW  YORK 


MUSIC  AND  BAD  MANNERS 


Mr.  Van  Vechten  has  written  another  book  which  will  ap- 
peal strongly  to  music-lovers  as  well  as  to  the  many  who, 
knowing  little  about  music,  would  like  to  know  more.  His 
writings  are  the  encouragement  and  not,  as  so  often  hap- 
pens in  the  case  of  critics'  works,  the  despair  of  the  un- 
initiated. His  publisher  especially  commends  to  your  at- 
tention: 

Music  AND  BAD  MAXXEHS 

THE    COXTEXTS 

I.    Music  and  Bad  Manners. 
II.    Music  for  the  Movies. 

III.  Spain  and  Music. 

(This   is   the   only   detailed  account   in 
English  of  Spanish  Music.) 

IV.  Shall  we  Realize  Wagner's  Ideals? 
V.    The  Bridge  Burners. 

VI.    A  New  Principle  in  Music. 
VII.    Leo  Ornstein. 

Some  Reviews  of  this  book  follow: 

"  When  Carl  Van  Vechten's  first  book,  '  Music  After  the 
Great  War,'  was  published  a  year  or  so  ago,  I  lifted  a 
modest  hymn  in  praise  of  it,  and  at  the  same  time  de- 
nounced the  other  music  critics  of  America  for  the  few- 
ness of  their  books,  and  for  the  intolerable  dulness  of  that 
few.  .  .  .  Now  comes  his  second  book,  *  Music  and  Bad 
Manners ' —  thicker,  bolder,  livelier,  better.  In  it,  in  fact, 
he  definitely  establishes  a  point  of  view  and  reveals  a  per- 
sonality, and  both  have  an  undoubted  attractiveness.  In  it 
he  proves,  following  Huneker,  that  a  man  may  be  an 
American  and  still  give  all  his  thought  to  a  civilized  and 
noble  art,  and  write  about  it  with  authority  and  address, 
and  even  find  an  audience  that  is  genuinely  interested  in 
It  ...  a  bird  of  very  bright  plumage,  and,  after  Hune- 
ker, the  best  now  on  view  in  the  tonal  aviary.  ...  In 
chapter  III  he  spits  on  his  hands,  as  it  were,  and  settles 
down  to  business,  and  the  result  is  a  long,  a  learned  and  a 
very  instructive  dissertation  on  modern  Spanish  music  — 
a  school  of  tone  so  little  understood,  and  even  so  little 
known,  that  it  gets  but  twenty  lines  in  Grove's  Diction- 
ary, and  is  elsewhere  scarcely  mentioned  at  all.  Here  is 


useful  pioneering;  here  is  also  good  criticism,  for  it  arouses 
the  curiosity  of  the  reader  about  the  thing  described,  and 
makes  him  want  to  know  more  about  it.  And  following  it 
come  four  chapters  upon  various  aspects  of  that  new 
music  which  now  causes  such  a  pother,  with  its  gossamers 
of  seconds  and  elevenths,  its  wild  niggerish  rhythms,  and 
its  barbaric  Russian  cadences.  .  .  .  Van  Vechten  consti- 
tutes himself  its  literary  agent,  and  makes  out  a  very 
plausible  case  for  it."—  H.  L.  Mencken  in  "  The  Smart  Set." 

"  Mr.  Van  Vechten  is  well  known  in  the  musical  and 
literary  worlds,  and,  while  '  clever,'  he  is  just  and  sound 
in  his  critical  verdicts.  He  inspires  students  and  enter- 
tains general  readers.  .  .  .  His  theory  about  the  develop- 
ment of  music  appropriate  to  and  especially  for  the 
4  movies '  is  unique.  .  .  .  There  are  many  clever  suggestions 
one  can  cull  from  a  careful  study  of  the  book." — "  The  Liter- 
ary Digest." 

"'Music  and  Bad  Manners,'  by  Carl  Van  Vechten,  tells 
many  amusing  stories  to  show  what  stupidities  and  bru- 
talities may  be  perpetrated  by  persons  of  the  so-called 
4  artistic  temperament,'  and  on  the  other  hand,  what  rude- 
ness may  be  shown  by  an  audience.  These  stories  .  .  . 
are  vastly  entertaining,  but  the  title  essay  gives  a  mislead- 
ing impression  of  Mr.  Van  Vechten's  book,  of  its  weight 
and  poise,  for  it  has  much  serious  discussion  and  criticism 
and  much  historical  information  of  value  and  significance. 
Music  lovers  will  skim  with  a  smile  the  essay  on  '  Music 
and  Bad  Manners,'  but  they  will  read  with  absorbed  at- 
tention the  other  half  dozen  essays  of  the  volume.  Mr. 
Van  Vechten  writes  sound  and  not  too  technical  English, 
and  has  the  good  taste  and  good  temper  to  write  without 
rancour." — •"  Vogue." 

"Carl  Van  Vechten  is  one  of  the  relatively  few  people 
in  America  to  write  about  music  neither  as  a  press  agent 
nor  as  a  pedant,  but  as  an  essayist.  .  .  .  '  Music  After  the 
Great  War '  and  '  Music  and  Bad  Manners '  are  delightful 
reading  whether  the  reader  is  a  musician  or  not.  '  Music 
and  Bad  Manners '  ranges  from  a  pretty  thorough,  if  dis- 
cursive, outline  of  the  national  music  of  Spain  to  the  col- 
lection of  lively  anecdotes  forming  the  essay  from  which 
the  volume  takes  its  name.  The  comments,  always  shrewd 
and  based  on  wide  experience,  betray  the  rare  quality  of 
clear  and  independent  thought.  Moreover,  Mr.  Van  Vech- 
ten, by  the  more  than  occasional  heterodoxy  of  his  ideas, 


stimulates  a  healthy  desire  to  climb  out  of  deep-worn  ruts. 
The  essays,  in  particular,  on  present  musical  tendencies  are 
none  the  less  illuminating  because  they  are  never  ponder- 
ous. .  .  .  The  charm  of  the  book  is  mainly  due  to  the 
author's  keen  enjoyment  of  the  grotesque,  illustrated  in 
scores  of  incisive  phrases,  and  in  a  wealth  of  vivid  anec- 
dote."—  Henry  Adams  Bellows  in  "  The  Bellman." 

"' Music  and  Bad  Manners'  by  Carl  Van  Vechten  is  a 
series  of  seven  essays  on  musical  topics  that  is  intensely 
interesting.  .  .  .  The  book  will  be  of  deepest  interest  to  all 
musicians." — "  The  New  York  Herald." 

"  Mr.  Van  Vechten  has  done  a  service  to  the  literature 
of  music  in  preparing  the  best  description  of  Spanish 
music  that  I  have  been  able  to  find  in  English.  .  .  .  The 
description  of  Spanish  dance  music  and  dances  is  exceed- 
ingly interesting  as  well  as  enlightening,  and  the  whole 
chapter  has  a  distinct  value  in  acquainting  the  reader  with 
the  musical  progress  of  a  musical  people  whose  records 
are  nowhere  adequately  presented  in  English." —  Russell 
Ramsey  in  "  The  Dial."' 

"  Carl  Van  Vechten  devotes  seventy-five  pages  of  his 
book,  '  Music  and  Bad  Manners '  to  a  consideration  of 
Spain  and  music.  .  .  .  The  result  of  Mr.  Van  Vechten's 
effort  ...  is  an  essay  which  no  student  of  music  to-day 
can  afford  to  be  without,  for  it  comprises  the  one  thorough 
examination  that  has  yet  been  made  of  a  subject." — Pitts 
Sanborn  in  "  The  New  York  Globe." 

"Carl  Van  Vechten  is  fundamentally  and  whole-heart- 
edly progressive.  He  approaches  his  subject,  as,  indeed, 
he  seems  to  approach  all  art  and  life  itself,  in  the  spirit  of 
adventure.  He  enjoys,  appreciates,  even  revels  in  the 
idioms  and  has  little  patience  with  the  pedants  and  critics 
who  oppose  them."— "The  New  York  Call." 

"  Mr.  Van  Vechten  considers  modern  tendencies  with  an 
open  mind.  He  is  to  be  no  more  deceived  into  disapproval 
of  innovators  by  their  apparent  disregard  for  tradition 
than  awed  by  tradition  itself  (in  this  case  the  Bayreuth 
tradition)  into  accepting  the  present  specious  and  old- 
fashioned  methods  of  staging  Wagner  as  the  sacred  in- 
tention of  the  master  .  .  .  Mr.  Van  Vechten  is  a  well 
informed  specialist,  a  bold  champion,  and  an  entertaining 
gossip."— "  The  New  York  Evening  Sun." 


"  A  recent  book  received  from  the  house  of  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  New  York  publisher,  which  would  make  excellent 
and  interesting  reading  for  most  musicians,  is  Carl  Van 
Vechten's  '  Music  and  Mad  Manners.'  It  is  lively  through- 
out and  draws  great  interest  in  the  recital  of  many 
anecdotes  of  well-known  musicians  and  vocalists  of  this 
century." — "  The  Musical  Leader." 

"  Carl  Van  Vechten  is  doing  much  to  rescue  music  from  the 
limbo  of  emotional  criticism  and  to  set  it  up  among  our  men- 
tal household  gods.  All  of  which  is  a  suggestion  that  '  Music 
and  Bad  Manners '  contains  the  only  pleasantly  informa- 
tive chats  on  modern  music,  or  perhaps  music  in  modern  days, 
if  you  think  of  modern  music  as  something  unholy,  that  have 
come  to  my  notice." —  Fanny  Butcher  in  "  The  Chicago  Tri- 
bune." 

"  Carl  Van  Vechten,  whose  book,  '  Music  After  the  Great 
War,'  excited  considerable  interest  in  artistic  circles  last 
year  and  drew  upon  him  the  censure  of  certain  conservatives 
because  he  did  not  agree  with  them  as  to  the  entertaining 
value  of  chamber  music,  has  published  a  new  volume,  that  is 
bound  to  extend  his  reputation  as  an  original  thinker  and  in- 
vestigator."— "  The  Evening  News  "  (Newark,  N.  J.) 

"Mr.  Van  Vechten's  education  in  music  has  been  broad 
and  catholic,  and  he  has  read  widely  and  remembered  well, 
so  that  he  selects  from  a  large  mass  of  material.  The  mu- 
sician may  test  his  own  breadth  by  trying  to  read  the  book 
without  swearing.  To  the  layman  interested  in  musical 
topics  it  will  prove  bright,  snappy,  and  original;  and  if  he  is 
alive  and  believes  in  evolution,  he  will  be  delighted  with  much 
of  what  he  finds  between  its  covers." —  W.  K.  Kelsey  in  "  The 
Detroit  (Mich.)  News  Tribune." 

"  A  new  book  which  music  lovers  will  enj  oy." — "  The  New 
York  Sun." 

"  This  volume  of  musical  essays  may  be  cordially  com- 
mended to  music-lovers  who  neither  bow  down  to  the  young- 
est nor  the  eldest  composer,  but  seek  to  listen  honestly  ac- 
cording to  their  powers.  The  author  is  a  critic  of  discern- 
ment and  sincerity." — "The  Providence  (R.  I.)  Journal." 

"  This  study  of  music  and  music  makers  is  as  lively  as  some 
of  the  new  tunes  that  have  been  given  to  us  recently,  but  it 
is  not  at  all  commonplace.  It  sets  a  new  mark  in  musical 
criticism." — "The  Portland  (Oregon)  Telegram." 


" '  Music  and  Bad  Manners '  by  Carl  Van  Vechten  is  one 
of  the  most  readable  books  dealing  with  music  that  has  been 
issued  in  a  long  time.  The  writer,  a  decidedly  clever  one, 
does  not  spend  his  energy  on  themes  and  theories  that  would 
prove  interesting  only  to  absorbed  students  of  music  but  he 
writes  in  a  delightful  style  that  gives  a  universal  interest  to 
his  themes.  It  is  the  kind  of  book  that  the  average  lover  of 
music  will  find  most  invigourating  and  that  will  stimulate  his 
love  of  music  to  a  further  examination  of  the  thesis  set 
forth  by  Mr.  Van  Vechten.  It  is  sound  and  discriminating 
in  its  j  udgments  and  it  is  unique  in  its  sub j  ect  matter.  There 
is  always  an  eye  for  selecting  the  things  of  highest  in- 
terest. .  .  .  This  is  a  book  that  will  prove  pleasing  to  all  who 
read  it.  Its  exhibition  of  the  knowledge  of  music  is  not 
pedantic,  and  the  author  is  one  of  the  new  forces  in  music." 
— "  The  Springfield  (Mass.)  Union." 

"  From  the  opening  chapter  until  the  final  page  the  book  is 
replete  with  interesting  matter." — •"  The  Buffalo  (N.  Y.) 
Commercial." 

"  The  author  relates  that  Strawinsky  once  played  some 
measures  of  '  The  Firebird '  to  his  master,  Rimsky-Korsakow, 
until  the  latter  said,  '  Stop  playing  that  horrid  thing ;  other- 
wise I  might  begin  to  enjoy  it.'  I  stopped  reading  this  book 
for  much  the  same  reason.  It  contains  an  infinite  amount  of 
amusing  musical  gossip,  and  deals,  among  other  things,  with 
Leo  Ornstein  and  music  in  Spain." — "  The  Masses." 

"  The  field  being  covered  by  Mr.  Van  Vechten  is  quite 
virgin.  He  writes  of  live  matters,  things  that  we  ought  to 
think  about,  and  probably  do,  but  are  a  little  afraid  of.  He 
says  things  for  us,  and  now  and  then  upsets  the  highbrows 
in  his  own  way." — "The  Console." 

"  Mr.  Van  Vechten  is  entertaining  at  all  times,  but  he  is 
most  himself  when  discussing  the  music  of  Schoenberg,  Orn- 
stein, Strawinsky,  and  other  '  bridge-burners '  as  he  labels 
them  in  this  volume.  ...  If  his  object  be  to  inspire  in  his 
readers  a  desire  to  hear  the  music  he  describes  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  one  instance  at  least." — "  Courier-Journal,"  Louis- 
ville, Kentucky. 


ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,   PUBLISHER,   NEW  YORK 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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